


Our Final Season

by poetatertot



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 22:51:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11344734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetatertot/pseuds/poetatertot
Summary: In a tiny grassland village, Lance is just trying to work hard enough to make his mother proud. By day he's an errand boy, running the streets with his best friend, Hunk. He figures he'll grow old and die in the only world he's ever known.But everything in his dreams is different. First there's the snow, and all the places he's never even seen before. Then there's the boy with the purple eyes. He's not even going tothinkabout the blue light he keeps seeing.All of those things in his dreams.. they can't bereal, can they?(An AU where some humans have a magical connection with the planet that gives them premonitions.)





	1. A Light In The Cellar

**Author's Note:**

> This series is based on an original work of mine where some humans (Hearers) have a magical connection with the planet. I'll introduce lore as necessary with story progression but for now, things will be pretty simple.  
> Locations in this story will be a mixture of VLD-related and original.

_"Last of all, the mother gave her children ears, so they might Hear her through the ages..."_

_-Terra Chronica I: Genesis_

++

 

The earth is sending dreams again.

Lance blinks his eyes open, grimacing against the sudden sunlight. The only lasting trace of the dream is his heartbeat; past the heavy weight in his chest, the muscle pulses and lurches at an unnatural speed, surging extra endorphins through his bloodstream. He almost feels like he’s floating on a warm cloud, several inches above his real body. A few more minutes, maybe, and he’ll come down from the high.

 _Remember to breathe._ He sucks in one breath, letting it whistle out through his teeth. And then another breath, and another.

The flowers on the windowsill open and close in time with his lungs.

“Another one?”

Lance summons the energy to roll his head around, letting the other cheek flop on the desk. Hunk is frowning again, premature lines pinching between his eyebrows; he offers Lance part of his orange. The juice is cool and sour-sweet down Lance’s throat. He groans appreciatively.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he croaks. “Thanks.”

“You slept through another lecture.” Hunk sighs. “Iverson is going to rip you a new one. _Again._ ” He shoves away from his desk, popping another slice of fruit into his mouth. “Anything different about this one?”

“Nope.” Lance pops his _p._ “The same as usual.” He slowly sits up, testing his arms and legs; his toes tingle and burn like they’ve been stung, hot pinpricks burning all over his body. _Remember to stretch._ He shifts in his seat, cracking his neck and all of his knuckles with an ease born from habit. “What time is it?”

“Just past one.” Hunk holds out another orange slice, popping it into Lance’s mouth when he opens obediently. “I told the priestess you just wanted a head start on your meditation. She bought it, somehow.”

“Of course she did.” The bottom vertebrae of his spine pops _wonderfully_ . Lance smacks his lips together, savoring the draining aches. “She’s got a soft spot for me you know. I’m her best apprentice.”  
  
“Her loudest, you mean,” Hunk sniffs. He rolls the orange peel through two fingers, crushing the smell into the open air. “You know she’s probably going to make you write an extra journal entry? You’ve been sleeping a lot lately.” He sucks in a soft breath. “I’m a little worried.”

“Don’t be,” Lance scoffs. His body is almost completely awake now, the weight of dreams rolling away like oil on water. He imagines it sliding off his skin, sinking back through the floorboards into the dirt again. _From our mother, to our mother,_ his mama had always said. “Come on. Let’s go see if there’s extra bread in the kitchens.”

The citadel is cool in the early afternoon, quiet aside from the cicadas and the occasional footstep. Lance cringes at how loud their feet are, sliding across the polished stones; if anyone hears them now they’ll be stopped, reprimanded for missing the courtyard hour. Punishment or not, the idea of missing lunch entirely makes his stomach growl furiously. The dreams _always_ make him hungry.

Still, he can’t deny how beautiful the day is. The sun pours in from the open archways, pooling gold in the cracks of stones, reflecting on polished handrails and windowsills. He can feel the residual heat in the breeze as it ruffles their tunics — hints of the oncoming summer, ready to soak skin with sweat and suck all moisture from the land. He’ll have to double up on his moisturizing routine soon.

The kitchen lies in the back of the fortress, away from the meditative fields the Hearers use; they have to walk the perimeter entirely to avoid crossing through any. The open patches of grass, tiny spaces of potted plants and smooth soil, pepper all four floors of the citadel like seasoning. Every turn reveals one or two, bridged by an arch or doorway. The flowers bloom as they pass, eagerly leaning for Lance like hungry pets, petals fluttering in the breeze.

“Hearing again?” One of the cooks asks. He doesn’t begrudge them for mooching but he does seem bemused by the dancing herbs on the windowsills. “Must’ve been a strong dream.”

“Something like that,” Lance hedges. He crams the bread into his mouth and moans dramatically the second it hits his tongue. Garlic and dried herbs, baked right into the grain. _Delicious._ “Got any more of this stuff? Y’know, for the road?”

“Don’t you have a family?” The guy snorts. “I don’t want your mother complaining about how you don’t eat her meals. And that bread is for _both_ of you.” He nudges them both back out into the heat, ignoring Hunk’s protests for a second roll.

They find themselves tucked under one engraved column lining the main garden. The shade it provides is just wide enough for the both of them to squat in its shadow, watching the other apprentices meditate. The buds of every bloom have unfurled in the afternoon sun, baring delicate petals of blues, reds, yellows, and everything in between. The air is heavy with the scent of fertile earth and flowery perfume. Lance has to fight his eyelids from drooping again.

In the center of the garden’s elaborate floral array is a single fountain. It’s not the prettiest thing Lance has ever seen, but it serves its meditative purpose all the same. The rest of their class is circled around it, knees and palms pressed to fresh dirt.

To those not well versed in their work, it would look a lot like posing. Nobody moves in the garden, heads bowed low enough to brush the ground; spines are stiff, chests barely move enough to breathe. Lance can’t see anyone’s faces from where they hide but he knows the empty expression they all must have. They’re as good as statues to an observer.

But they _dream._

++

The logistics are still fuzzy. The gift isn’t passed through bloodlines; social status, age, and location are all disregarded. The chance of having a Hearer in the family is entirely random as far as math is concerned, but you’re always chosen for a reason. Everything — the dreams, the high, the labor — is for a reason.

“You’ll know for sure if it’s special,” Lance’s mother says after one particularly awful nightmare. He’s seven and scrawny, his pants always hanging too high above his ankles. He doesn’t remember the first few dreams when he wakes, but the cold sweat and numbness in his legs tells him it’s _something._ There’s something he has to do. “Don’t worry, baby.”

He remembers how hot that summer was. The mid-July sun was brutal, killing every crop before it could bud through the earth. The hills were golden brown, thick waves of grass rippling in the blistering wind when it cared to whistle through. His shoulders and face burned through his tan.

But when Lance went to sleep the night before his eighth birthday, the heat didn’t follow.

“I dreamed of snow,” he admits to Hunk the next day. Hunk, his friend since practically birth, had the same problems with sleeping; they share their thoughts together between trips around town or out with the livestock. Hunk’s mother already has enlisted him to join the citadel when he turns eight. Despite her invitation to enroll Lance too, he knows he can’t. His mama needs him to keep earning change as an errand boy.

They sit at the top of Lance’s favorite hill and have lunch together, homemade, with extra honey on the rolls to celebrate. Lance chews on jerky and tries to see it again — the ice frozen over ancient stones, icicles suspended at the lip of fountains, wildflower petals crushed and black against the freezing air — and fails. How could something like that exist in a place where it barely even rains?

“Snow,” Hunk echoes. He traces the outline of Lance’s hand in the dirt. “Like, for real? How do you know?”

“I just do,” Lance huffs. “It looked and felt just like in the stories. It was so _cold_. When I tried to hold it, my hands burned and turned black. I felt like I was gonna freeze through my clothes.” He shudders. “I’m pretty sure I did, at the end.”

“Do you think it means anything?” They flop onto their backs, dried grass prickling through clothes. Lance stares at the sky, endless and blue, blue, blue. If he looks long enough he feels like he could fly up into it and drown.

 _What does it matter?_ He almost wants to say. _I can’t leave mama. She needs me._ But still..

“I wish I knew, buddy,” he murmurs. “I wish I knew.”

The dreams don’t stop with the snow. In the next one, ice falls from the sky in heavy, sharp clumps. In another the bushes and hills are bright green and bloom with flowers he’s never seen before. Lance bites into a red fruit that tastes sour-sweet, and the juice runs down his chin. He wakes up with the taste of it in the back of his mouth. Once, the town is gone entirely — replaced by an impossibly dark, thick forest of tall trees he’s never seen in his life.

 _How can I dream of something I’ve never seen before?_ In his regular dreams everything is the same as real life, or passes in blurry pictures he can never remember. It’s only when his heart starts to race, limbs going numb in his sleep, that the strange images come. He learns to count to twenty when it’s over, to stretch all his muscles. He learns to keep books under his bed, and to find his dreams in the indexes when he wakes.

The dreams are a terrible wonder. He fears for them — the panic, the way he stumbles, lost, through unfamiliar landscapes, the splintering ache when he wakes — but there’s still the tug for _more._ He closes his eyes and hopes to see another new thing, to feel it under his hands and along his skin. There’s no way out of Lance’s hometown but through slumber so he’ll take what he can get. Everything he dreams of is his to keep, locked away in his brain when he wakes.

Several months pass. Lance starts keeping a journal of the dreams to remember the sensations better. He writes on scraps of grocery lists and the backs of old letters, in the margins of his only books. It’s easier, he finds, to write if he pretends to go out on errands; he can pass by the citadel on the way to market and dig through the trash they leave out for collection. The lumps of graphite and old ink pens are just enough to jot down a couple of words. _Snow again. Three huge, black mountains. An old jacket._

“You know,” Hunk says one day. He watches Lance scrounge out a stick of pencil long enough for three whole sentences. “Have you ever thought about telling someone about your dreams?”

“Huh?” Lance frowns. “The dreams aren’t special, though. They’re just—”

“Weird? Repetitive? _Impossible_?”

“I was going to say mysterious,” he sniffs. “What good would it do me anyway?” _What good would it do mama?_

“Aside from helping you sleep better?” Hunk helps him to his feet. “If your dreams are as weird as you think they are, then don’t you think they might be.. _divine_?”

“What? Don’t be so dramatic, Hunk.” Lance shoves his newspaper into the waistband of his capris, nervously glancing up at the huge spires of the fort. The citadel casts long shadows in the afternoon, trailing dark fingers over much of town square. “They’re just dreams.”

 _The earth would never choose me anyway._ In this, he’s nearly confident. What could somebody like Lance — tiny, poor, stuck in a backwater town in the middle of nowhere — ever do for the bigger scheme of things? He is nothing. The dreams are nothing.

But why can’t he stop writing them down? Why does he keep hoping to have another, even though they hurt so much?

“All I’m saying is that it wouldn’t hurt to tell somebody.” Hunk runs one hand through his hair, nervously adjusting his headband. “Y’know, just in case.”

“I’m fine,” Lance snaps. “Stop worrying about it.” But he jogs the whole way home without looking back and forgets the dried fruit his mama asked for.

That night the cold dream comes back in full force. He stands, stuck in a snowbank in his pajamas, and watches as an avalanche slides off the hills surrounding their lone town, smothering it in ice. All the buildings are filled or crushed; the whole town is consumed in an instant, burying everyone inside it alive. Nobody even makes it out of their beds. Only the citadel, with its spiny towers and high, surrounding wall, is able to stay safe.

Lance wakes up utterly numb from head to toe. The second he can move again he vomits; he records the last dream with shaking hands. In the morning, he runs to the citadel and shows the first person he sees his journal.

In three days, he’s sworn into the citadel’s academy. He’s a student of the earth. A dreamer.

The citadel is different from what Lance imagined. For how scary and huge the building is, the people are nice. Every day he walks to school with Hunk; they sit in classes about dreamwalking and hearing the wishes of the earth. They keep official journals of any dream they can remember, and talk them over with the priests. They learn about the planet’s voice.

“You are the ears of our mother earth, its Hearers,” his first instructor announces. She sweeps her arms out in grand gestures, as if to grasp the whole world in her fingers. “You listen to the planet’s wishes, dream of what could be and has been. You must serve as the mouthpiece for our earth, and spread its message far and wide.”

“How will we know if a dream is super important?” Lance interjects. He thinks of his first dream, the same dream he’s had for the past year. The snow comes back all the time, clumping under his feet or falling from the sky in sweet, light snowflakes. “What is it like?”

“You’ll _know_ ,” the priestess breathes. She drops her arms and smiles beatifically. “The planet will make it clear.”

 _That’s it then_ , he thinks, satisfied. _I’ve already been having them for years._

It’s five months into their instruction that Lance goes beyond a regular divine dream. He has _it._

A class of seven including the priestess, they all sit around the fountain in the main garden. By now the sun has slithered past its pinnacle; half the garden is in shadow, cool in the beginning of winter’s grasp. Lance can feel how cold the ground is through his extra pair of socks. Beside him, Hunk shivers and puffs out a long, white breath of air.

They kneel, heads bowed until their foreheads brush the ground. The rush of blood to his head is familiar and weirdly calming. Lance extends his arms out on either side of his body, straightening them, spreading his fingers to touch as much of the dirt as possible. It’s _cold_ , skin rapidly numbing where the ground sucks his warmth away. He wonders, briefly, if his mother will make hot broth for dinner when he gets home.

And then he’s _falling._

Everything is white. There’s nothing in the empty space. Not even his own body — does he still have one? — exists in such a pocket of utter blank. He’s floating above it all, a thread of spider silk on the wind. He _is_ the wind.

 _No_ , he realizes. If he’s the wind, then why is he so cold?

Lance looks down and sees how the world opens up, sheer and impossibly smooth in all directions. He’s _freezing_ , beyond simply cold, numb to the point of disconnecting from his own body. His limbs are crusted in ice so thick that it seems to have solidified around his clothes, molding him into a single shape.

He shudders, desperately trying to move, but his arms are stuck to his sides. He’s buried up to the thighs in the snow; the white threatens to swallow his whole body, rapidly rising as it continues to fall from the sky like rain. He opens his mouth to suck in a breath, to scream, _anything_ , and the air is forced right out of his lungs. He can feel his heart hammering wildly in his chest, trying to pump oxygen through his body, but it isn’t working. Nothing is.

The snow constricts around him, crushing his ribs under its weight. His throat is torn raw from the cold, stripped of any warmth or sound. He’s so small, underneath the thick downfall. He’s going to be smothered.

 _I’m going to die here._ The revelation is utterly terrifying. His tears are knife-like, slicing through the heat of his cheeks, freezing the second they touch the open air. He can feel the lump in his throat swelling, choking him. _This is it._

The white of everything begins to fade, flickering with black spots. His heart rate finally starts to slow; his teeth stop chattering, leaving behind a dull ache in his jaw. His body has given up. He’s so _tired._

 _I’ll close my eyes for just a minute_ , he thinks, even as half his brain screams frantically to stay awake. _It hurts to keep them open anyway._

He relaxes, letting the snow rise and swallow him up to his neck, the chill of it beyond regular sensation. It feels almost soft, now; a few more minutes and he’ll drift away. He takes one last, quiet gasp for air, eyelashes fluttering weakly. _Just a minute—_

Through the slits of his closing eyes, somewhere far out on the open flat white, a single pinprick of light flickers into existence. It’s _blue._ He squints at it, admiring the brightness of that faraway star. It’s the color of the skies at home.

 _Home._ The voice isn’t his, but he can feel his mind expanding, splitting open inside his skull, letting in the warm, gravelly tone. The voice has no sex, no physical body to connect to, but it belongs to the light. Of this, he’s sure. _Do you remember home?_

He feels the light brush his brain, searing behind his eyes. His brain is beyond his own control; he’s backseat to his own thoughts, so filled by the blue light they are. Images flicker in rapid succession, so quick he can barely hold onto them: _Grassy hills. Old stones in the fireplace. His mother. The town square. Hunk. An orange. His old bed._ He recognizes them all, and then some. _Tall pines. An old firepit. A boy in red, with messy, black hair. A cluster of tents._

 _You have to make it back home_ , the light reminds him. _When you make it here, you have to remember to go home._

The image of the boy surfaces again, holding in his mind, coalescing into a full memory. The sky is darkening, bleeding reds and golds of the setting sun over a full, verdant landscape. The boy slowly turns from it all to look at him, mouth parting softly. He smiles.

“Home,” Lance breathes. _I’ll remember to go home._

The warm memory is torn from him, then; he can feel it shredding away from who he is now, fluttering into the cold air. He feels a sick pang of sadness, and then resolution. _It’s gone for now but it will be back_. He doesn’t know how, but it will.

The black spots at the edge of his vision spread and the world falls away, taking the light with it, finally leaving him in the dark.

When he remembers to open his eyes again, the world is empty. Lance swallows hard, feeling that same spike of terror pierce his gut — but then he notices soft edges of light and the real heat of the world around him. He’s _here_ , in the dirt.

 _A dream_ , he thinks hazily. _Holy shit._ His whole body is numb, but the feeling is different; his insides feel like warm honey, slow and syrupy, and his head is full of clouds. He opens his mouth to suck in air and surprises himself by laughing. He feels like he can do _anything._

“Take note,” he hears the priestess say from somewhere to his left. “The endorphins will last for several minutes longer. The earth’s reward to him, for Hearing its message.”

Slowly, Lance drags his gaze to the right where Hunk is supposed to be. He’s sitting up in the flowers, mouth open in a perfect _o._ He looks like he might faint.

 _Why the long face?_ Lance wants to say, but all that comes out is a hiccup. He wriggles the fingers on one hand, recognizing the prickle of feeling coming back. The ground is so _warm_. Absentmindedly, Lance trails his fingers through the wildflowers.

_Wildflowers? In the winter?_

The descent back into reality is sudden and sobering. His body _hurts_ . He feels as if he’s run too long, lifted too much weight. His whole frame is stiff even through the soaring rush of heat, and he’s sitting in the middle of a bed of _flowers._

The patch of growth extends perfectly around his prone form, lancing out from his extended arms into the shape of an eagle in flight. There’s blue bells and pink-petaled peonies, the fiery red poppies that favor the warm spring. It’s as if Lance has taken a chunk of fertile earth and planted it in the middle of the cold season. He sits up slowly, feeling the soft green grass that cushions around his body.

“Congratulations,” the priestess beams. Hunk helps Lance to his feet, supporting his weight when it becomes clear his knees won’t hold him up. He’s trembling like a fawn, and _starving._ “You’ve finally become a true Hearer.”

Even now, watching the other apprentices meditate, Lance is disturbed by how easy it is to Hear the earth’s call. In the past decade at the citadel, he’s only seen Hunk and the priestess experience it to the same frequency. There’s talk of other apprentices Hearing on the days where he works, but Lance never gets to see it. The flowers bloom with the sanctioned priests and few else.

The idea ties his stomach in complicated knots. _How is it,_ he wonders, _that we Hear nearly every week? What makes us special?_ He wishes he knew.

“How nice of you to join us,” a low voice growls behind them. Hunk squeals and topples forward, pushing Lance flat under his weight. They sprawl out on the floor for all to see.

It’s _Iverson._ Oh god.

“S-sir,” Hunk stutters, clenching one huge fist around Lance’s bicep. He looks like he’s going to be sick. “We were just—”

“Ignoring your duties? Skipping out on meditation, _again_ ?” Iverson scowls. The man is _huge_ , cut from the same boulders stone pillars are hewn from. His lack of an eye somehow makes him seem less like a messenger of earth and more like a wild warrior, torn straight from Lance’s fairy tales. He’s honestly terrifying.

Iverson’s single eye snaps to Lance, pinning him down. “You owe extra study time for slacking, apprentice.”

“Yes sir,” Lance coughs, wriggling out from under Hunk. He doesn’t dare break the instructor’s gaze, rubbing his hands nervously over his tunic.

“I want another two pages on my desk by tomorrow morning.”

“Yes sir.”

“And _you_ .” His single eye snaps back to Hunk, freezing the larger boy where he already cowers. “Always trailing this slacker like a dog, are you? If I were you I would stay in line.” He crosses his arms. “The two of you may be apprentices, but that doesn’t mean we have to keep you. Step out of line too much and the citadel _will_ eject you. _Both_ of you.”  
  
“Yes sir,” Hunk whispers. He looks ready to puke. “We’re sorry.”

Iverson snorts. “Good. To prove it, the two of you are on duty tonight. Start at sundown.”

“Yes sir.” The lump in Lance’s throat is a stone, cold and hard. “We won’t be late.”

“No, I should think not.” He casts a glance over the both of them, mouth twisting into a sour smile. “Good afternoon, apprentices.”

They sit in dumb silence, watching Iverson’s hulking shadow slide away until he turns a corner. The garden air hangs heavy; there are no bees buzzing any longer, or passing birds. The class is still in the middle of meditation.

Of course Iverson is right. Lance stares at the ground until his eyes burn. It’s so easy to forget that for all the dreams they have compared to the students here, there have to be hundreds — no, _thousands —_ of Hearers in places he hasn’t even seen. They may be gifted beyond the norm, but the end of the day they’re still expendable. There are other dreamers to take their place in society.

“We might as well join them,” Hunk murmurs. “Lance?”

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I don’t think I can right now. I’ll meet you here later, okay?” He staggers to his feet, hating how his knees tremble even after the bread.

“Are you sure?” Hunk calls, but he’s up, around the corner after Iverson. He throws an arm behind himself, one wave, and dips out.

++

The world beyond the citadel is always a shock. The fort walls are _thick_ ; once Lance steps past the front gate, it’s as if all outside sound is sucked away. The hustle and bustle of their tiny town never bleeds through those stones. They are, for all intents and purposes, completely insulated.

Beyond the walls, however, the town of Al’Sae lives on. She rises with the sun — shops opening, curtains pulled aside, livestock led out to pasture in the endless grassy hills — and sleeps under the glowing moon with her inhabitants. The town isn’t too big; they’re one of multiple stopping points between two cities, another knot in the golden sea that many travelers skip right over.

Lance knows these streets like the back of his hand. He zig-zags between houses, opting for side avenues over the huge vein that runs straight through town. Over the shingled roofs he can hear the hooves and noisy flurry of the market filling the air with dust and the musk of cooking meat. The yellowed building plaster is smooth and warm beneath his hands, numbing his palms where he slides his fingerpads along; his thumb grazes over the etched fingerprints of others long before him — the first people, who made these buildings under a new sun. _We live in our history_ , his mama would say.

His home lies in one of the outermost blocks of Al’Sae where the life of the main road is a faint hum. It isn’t much by most standards, but so what? Lance likes the way the picket fence sags a little, can trace where younger him cut his name into the front door. At least the herbs in the window grow well, thanks to his care.

“I’m back,” he calls, careful not to let the screen slam. The livingroom is cool and dark behind his mother’s curtains; Lance waits for his eyes to adjust as he pops off his sandals, kicking them into the shoe pile. A spider jumps from the stack and skitters across the floor.

“So soon?” Mama looks up from the stove. She stretches out an arm to hug him, ruffling his hair; Lance wraps both arms around her waist. She smells like the soil after it rains, and dried spices. He tucks her head under his chin and sighs.

“Just for a bit. Had to stretch my legs, you know?”

“Oh, baby.” She clucks her tongue and stirs the beanpot. “Be sure not to push yourself so hard. You know how I worry.”

“Yes, mama.” Lance tucks a stray hair behind her ear. “I promise I’ll sleep early tonight. For real, I mean,” he hastily adds, sensing how she tenses under him. “No dreams, if I can.”

“No dreams.” She pauses in her movements. “You said you’re back for just a little while?”

“Ah, yeah.” He can’t help the way he shuffles, exhaling noisily through his nose. “I.. _may_ have gotten placed on wall duty again.”

“ _Lance_. That’s the second time this month.”

“I know, I know.” He lets go of his mother, stepping back to let her flit about. She pops open a cupboard and pulls out two jars of dried herbs, filling the air with the scent of oregano. “At least I’ll be here for breakfast?”

“You better.” Mama sighs, tossing the herbs in with the lentils. “I feel like I don’t see my boy as much as I used to. Always out and about, you are.”  
Lance leans heavily against the wall, careful to mind the hanging spoons. For all his mother complains, they both know why he’s gone all the time. “I’ll try my best to visit more,” he promises quietly. “I’m gonna go lay down for a little, okay?”

“Alright. I’ll pack you food to take back.” She waves him away, focusing on her bean soup.

Lance’s room is probably his most favorite spot to nap. The room is just big enough for his bed and dresser, a stack of notebooks over the years balancing next to the door. The curtains are tied up, letting the sunlight pool in the middle of his mattress.

 _Warm._ He curls the soft edges of his quilt over his knuckles and sighs at the softness. Tucked away here in the tiny cocoon of his bed, Lance hopes to let go of the dreams for a little while and drift.

He closes his eyes and does exactly that.

++

For all the plain colors the grasslands shine with during the day, sunset is always a sight for sore eyes. The flat blue of the sky turns to copper and gold, the sun lighting the horizon on fire as it dips into the grass. The sky glows with the dying heat of day while the streets of Al’Sae turn purple beneath it, cooling where the shadows spread to reach over stone. Candles light in windows and cooking fires flare to life; the houses become their own ocean of twinkling lights.

Lance loves this hour the most.

The main avenue is beginning to slow. He walks around wagons and shopkeepers closing up stalls, careful to duck out of the way as livestock shuffle past for the night. Dust already is eager to settle; it rests in the woodwork and wrinkled tunics of everyone passing. He can feel it layering on him like a second skin.

“Late shift?” One old stall-owner calls out to him. Hearer duties are a fascinating mystery to the rest of town but one the people aren’t afraid to ask about; in return for his information, market workers share jerky scraps and tidbits of news gleaned from passing travelers. It’s a healthy trade Lance lives for.

“All in a day’s work,” Lance replies, casting a wave. “Just doing my duty.”

“You mean you’re a troublemaker, more like.” The woman laughs, baring her missing front tooth, and tosses him an old orange. “One for the road, dreamboat. On me.”

“Oh, Callah, has anyone told you how lovely you look after a day’s work?” He flutters his lashes and shoots her a winning smile. “You glow like the setting sun.”  
  
“You mean an old butterball.” Callah snorts. “Go on, get out of here. You citadel people run on tight schedules, no? Wouldn’t want to receive another punishment. They’ll beat your ass.”  
  
“They wouldn’t dare,” Lance replies cheerfully, but quickens his pace. “Thanks for the fruit!”

The citadel stands black against the sunset like a looming fortress. Lance rubs the last traces of sleep from his eyes, smooths his hair, sucks in a nervous breath, and pushes past the front gate inside.

The halls are mostly empty since everyone goes home for the night. Lance follows the wrap-around path on the floor level, eyes slowly adjusting to the dark. He’s not a huge fan of being here at night but a punishment is what it is. At least he’ll have Hunk.

The two meet up in the main garden. Most of the buds have closed too, clumping tightly together in their bushes. Hunk is leaning against the fountain, tracing the old etched words in the stone with his fingers absentmindedly. He smiles at Lance’s approach.

“Nap alright?”

“Slept like a baby.” Lance tosses the pack of food into Hunk’s open hands. “ Lentil soup tonight. Mom wrapped extra bread for us.”  
  
“Your mom’s the best,” Hunk moans, popping off the stopper on the jug to smell the soup. “Lemon _and_ lentil? Suddenly night duty doesn’t seem so bad.”

They wait until the last priest leaves before starting the rounds. Ideally, the two of them _should_ split up between the gated entrance and the northern wall, but there’s food to be had. They settle for perching on one of the roofs next to the largest spire, where they can watch the sunset and keep a vague eye on their surroundings.

“Why is guard duty even a thing?” Lance mutters, pouring soup into a cup. “It’s not like there’s anything here to even steal.”

“Maybe they don’t want people picking plants from the garden?” Hunk slurps his soup down, sighing happily at the tang on his tongue. “Or, like, vandalizing. Remember how those kids threw cow shit at old Rowan’s store?”

“Old Rowan is a hardass,” Lance sniffs. He tears a chunk of bread off one roll, popping into his mouth absentmindedly. The sun is only a sliver of fire now, barely peeking out from over the hills. “If he doesn’t want kids giving him shit, then he shouldn’t be so stingy.”

“Says the guy who tries to charm his way out of paying for anything.”  
  
“I’m just using my talents is all.”

Hunk raises an eyebrow. “Sure.”

They polish off the soup jug before the sky turns completely dark, the bread following quickly after. Lance leans back against the old roof shingles and stares up at the darkening sky. Already the stars are beginning to come out, tiny white pinpricks sparkling. It’s beautiful and so _big_. He could lay here and stare forever, really.

“I guess I’ll take first point at the wall,” Hunk sighs, brushing crumbs off his tunic. “Meet back here at midnight?”

“Midnight,” Lance agrees.

“Same call as always?”

“Same call.”

“Okay.” He wavers, shifting from foot to foot. “If anything happens, don’t hesitate to use it, alright?”

“Hunk.” Lance slings the food bag over one shoulder and fixes him with a look. “You don’t _really_ think something is going to happen, do you?”

“Better safe than sorry,” he retorts. “Some of us like to be prepared, you know.”  
  
“I _am_ prepared. I’ve got all I need up here.” Lance taps his temple and flashes a smile. “But yes, same call. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Hunk kicks a stray chunk of shingle off the roof and sighs again. “See you, then.”

Lance follows the roofs around the perimeter, jumping from ledge to ledge. When he first joined the congregation he would climb up before everyone arrived to watch the sunrise. After so many years, running along these roofs is as easy as his stretching routine, or leaning into a handstand. The feeling when he jumps is almost like flying.

When he reaches the southern area, he gets to scaling the highest rooftop at the southeastern spire. The rain gutter wobbles beneath his weight as he shimmies along, wedging himself higher and higher. The gatepost is actually the ramparts between the southern ends but who’s around to tell him no?

The perch is smarter than the gatepost anyway. From here, the townspeople are small enough to squish under his thumb like ants. He can see anybody coming from a mile away.

 _Too bad nobody will._ Well, that’s fine. He’ll just sit right here and think about stuff.

 

Or not.

The moon rises high in the sky, soaring above the grasslands towards its pinnacle, and nothing happens. Really. Lance was hoping for at least a stray dog to pass by, or to maybe catch a glimpse of a bat in the foothills. He watches every light flicker into existence, and then watches them all flicker out again one by one. People are sleeping and he’s up _here,_ out in the open air, watching them all tuck in.

His legs start to ache from standing after a while so he sits cross-legged, bag plopped in his lap. There’s not much of a breeze tonight; the day’s heat lingers in the roof shingles, warming his legs where they touch. It could be worse, he supposes.

The moon is almost at its height when Lance gets the urge to pee.

 _I’ll be back real quick_ , he promises the bag. _Just stay here and keep watch for me._

The closest bathroom is, unfortunately, directly beneath him on the ground floor. Exactly _why_ they don’t keep stalls on the third floor is beyond him, but it’s probably a little too late to give architectural suggestions. He slides down the gutter (it’s faster, though Hunk would have a heart attack) and goes for a seat.

It’s on the way back up, scaling the side of the building, that everything goes to shit.

Lance has a sure, steady hand. It’s one of the skills he’s most proud of. He reaches for the last ledge, clinging to the gutter with his thighs, gripping the edge of a shingle with a firm grip.

His fingers curl around the stone, weight leaning from the gutter towards that rooftop — and the building _moves._

_Crunch._

The shingle crumbles in his hand, breaking free from the rest of the rooftop. He flails but there’s nothing to hold onto. His thighs _burn_ with the weight of his whole body and he’s falling backwards, leaning away from that wall, gripping at the open air. He’s going to fall headfirst.

“Hold on!”

Lance’s head snaps up to the ledge above him. There’s a person there dressed in all black, their face covered by a half-mask and cowl, and he _shouldn’t_ take help from a stranger, his mama always told him not to, but this _has_ to be one situation where he absolutely can’t weigh his options. He flings himself forward and takes their gloved hand, squeezing desperately around their wrist.

“I’ve got you,” they growl, other hand reaching out to take Lance’s right forearm. The two of them float there for a moment, Lance’s torso stretched uncomfortably out over open space and his heart hammering in his chest like a drum, making his head swim. “Come on. Let go of the gutter!”

Lance sucks in a deep breath and _relaxes._

The stranger grunts under his sudden weight but never falters, straining to drag Lance up as his lower body swings into the air sideways. They hover there, clinging desperately to each other at the roof’s edge, and Lance stares up into a face with the biggest dark eyes he’s ever seen.

And then he’s up, ribs sliding painfully against the shingles. The person lets go immediately and sits back to catch his breath.

“Thanks,” Lance coughs, pressing his cheek to the ground. _Oh, sweet, sweet land._ “I would’ve been a goner.”

“Are you out of your mind?” The stranger hisses, jumping to their feet. “You could have _died._ ”

“It’s easier than taking the stairs.” Lance blinks up at the cloaked figure. Standing straight, they don’t look any taller than Lance himself. “Are you uh, trying to get in?”

The stranger goes stiff. “Is—” They cough, dropping their voice an octave. _“Is it any of your business?”_

Lance raises an eyebrow. “I’m on guard duty. See?” He gestures to the tiny insignia stitched into his tunic. Every member of the citadel has one. “Soo.. If you wouldn’t mind..”

“Wait.” They shift awkwardly in place, arms swinging around their cloak. _Was that the wrong thing to say?_ “You’re the one in charge?”

“Well I don’t know about _in charge_ but—”

The stranger whips out the biggest knife Lance has _ever seen_ , barring the butcher shop. _Where was he keeping that?_

“You.” The stranger points it at him, blade hovering just under Lance’s chin. When did he even get this close? Lance tries not to swallow too hard and goes very still. “Tell me where the saint’s layer is.”  
  
“I— _what?_ ”

The saint’s layer is arguably the holiest ground in any city — _the center of all planetary energy_ , the priests say. When the citadels were first being built hundreds of years ago after the Fall, the saint’s layers were the first structures to be erected. They serve as both the housing of passing religious figures and the ground of miracle work. Nobody is allowed to go in but the highest priest of each citadel and the saint themself.

“Are you nuts?” Lance snaps, pressing himself into the shingles. The knife is uncomfortably sharp where it brushes at his jugular. “ _Nobody_ is allowed in there. I don’t even know where it is!”

“Don’t _lie_ to me,” the stranger snarls. “All you cult people — you share each other’s secrets, don’t you? _Where is it?_ ”

“Wh— _cult?_ Listen buddy, I think you have the wrong idea here—”

“I know _exactly_ what’s going on—”

“If you think I would just tell you—”

“Shut up!” They hiss, suddenly pressing their gloved hand to his throat. The leather is warm and tight, effectively cutting off Lance’s air. He gasps, shuddering beneath the stranger’s grip as they lean into him. They’re close enough that Lance can feel their breath on his face through the mask.

“Lance?” _Oh no._

Hunk teeters uncertainly on the rooftops, careful not to stray too far from the center of the building. His anxious expression morphs into something else entirely when he comes close enough to see the both of them. He looks ready to puke.

“Wh- _what are you doing to Lance?_ ”

“Quiet.” The knife presses harder against Lance’s throat. He tries not to grimace too much. “Tell me where the saint’s layer is or he gets it.”

“Oh my god,” Hunk whispers faintly. “You’re holding Lance hostage. That’s what this is. Oh my god.” He shudders.

“Hurry up, big boy.”

“I _don’t know!”_ Hunk takes one shaky step forward and scowls, wringing his hands. “Let him go! We don’t know where it is. _Honest._ ”

The stranger growls, clearly frustrated with the turn of events. Lance can see their irises flicking between Hunk and himself.

“Didn’t think this far, did you?” Lance mutters.

“Fine,” the stranger says, ignoring him. “If you won’t tell me where it is, I’ll find it myself.”

They straighten together in one fluid motion, Lance’s wrists held tightly in one hand while the knife stays at his neck with the other. The way his head has to tilt back is super uncomfortable; he can already feel himself getting a crick in his neck. And then, out of the stranger’s cloak, he feels the click of handcuffs around his wrists.

“There are better ways to do this,” he complains.

“Shut up.” The stranger jerks his head in a nod towards Hunk. “You. Take us to the garden.”  
  
“The garden? But—”

“Don’t ask questions,” the stranger snaps. “The main garden. Go on.”

They pick their way across the building with Hunk leading the way. Hunk, bless his heart, can hardly bear to keep his eyes off of Lance, fingers curling and uncurling on his tunic like he might rip it off.

When they get to the edge of the first rooftop Lance half-expects the stranger to throw him across like a sack. Instead, the world tilts on its axis — he’s lifted and thrown over one shoulder.

“This can’t be happening,” Lance grumbles.

The stranger shifts his weight and eyes the distance. “Believe it,” he says, and makes the jump.

There are probably a few more embarrassing things than being carried around like a sack of grain, Lance muses, but he can’t think of them right now. This _has_ to be in the top five.

The main garden spreads out, picturesque in black and white from the moonlight. The fountain in the middle looks almost like it’s made of glass — the way it shines, polished and glazed in the light, is serene and otherworldly.

“H-here we are,” Hunk mutters, shuffling to the side. The stranger sighs and dumps Lance in a patch of dirt. “Main garden.”

“Stand back,” the stranger demands, stepping forward. They pause at the fountain’s edge, running their fingers over the etched letters the way Hunk had earlier that day.

They bring up their knife and, in a single fluid motion, slice through one forearm like butter.

“Oh my god,” Hunk groans again. “I’m gonna be sick.”  
  
The blood flows freely, dripping into the empty stone basin like ink. Gut churning, Lance watches the stranger’s blood flow for several long seconds before they stand back, letting the blood drip into the dirt. The stranger pauses, wetting the soil with their blood, and then kneels in the dirt.

 _They’re reaching for a dream_ , Lance realizes. They doesn’t fold completely but let their bloody palm touch the dirt, sucking in one deep breath and letting it out slowly through their teeth.

The flowers begin to bloom.

Lance can’t help but stare as the buds curl up and up, new growths shooting off at a rate he’s only seen a few rare times before. The vines slither outward at an impossible speed, tangling and reaching inward towards the fountain with hungry, desperate fingers, before dipping into the basin itself.

There’s a long moment where perhaps nothing will happen at all — Lance snaps his gaze to Hunk, who is staring at the fountain with his mouth open — before the earth begins to shudder beneath them.

“Bingo,” the stranger breathes.

The soil gives way, sinking into itself in a perfect rectangle in front of the fountain, sloping downwards under the opening created. The earth drops in levels, each about a foot wide, leading into the dark. _Stairs_ , Lance thinks faintly. _They look like stairs._

The stranger waits for a heartbeat after the ground stops shaking to stand, brushing dirt off of their knees. They cast a backwards glance at the pair.

“You in first,” they say, gesturing with their bloody knife at Hunk. He whimpers but doesn’t disobey; the stranger slings Lance over his shoulder and follows easily.

Realistically, there should be no light underground. How can there be, when the earth _literally opened up_ right before their very eyes? Why then can they see just fine?

“The walls are glowing red,” Hunk whispers. He hasn’t stopped wringing his hands frantically. “The _walls_ are _glowing_ _red._ ”

The room is basically empty aside from a single bed and the citadel insignia engraved into the floor. There’s a single door on the far side of the space, with no lock. The insignia is burned into that too.

“Alright,” the stranger says, nodding to Hunk. “You. Open the door.”

“Me?” His fingers curl into the hem of his tunic, twisting the fabric. “But I don’t know how.”

They raise an eyebrow. “You’ve got the mark, don’t you?” They point at the stitched symbol on his chest.

Hunk takes one look at the drawn blade and swallows audibly, stepping forward. There’s no lock or handle on the door. Tentatively, he reaches out to brush his knuckles against the wood. The door shudders and melds into the dirt like wet clay.

The stranger shoves past Hunk into the open room. Just enough light, soft and buttery, seeps from the walls to outline jagged, unfamiliar shapes of things hanging. There has to be at least ten massive chests too, bolted tightly with shiny, metal locks.

“Guns,” the stranger breathes. “Just as they thought.” They hover at the wall, bloody hand sliding over one odd weapon.

“Guns?” Lance squirms to sit upright and squints into the dark. “But those have been banned for centuries by the—” He swallows, mouth suddenly dry.

The stranger glances back at him but doesn’t anything. They take a single step further, peering at a huge, unfamiliar map on the wall. Then, without warning, they grab a gun from its stand, yanking it free of its restraints.

Somewhere in the distance a bell begins to ring.

“Shit!” They swing around, staring at Hunk and Lance with wide eyes. It’s clear they have no idea how to hold the old weapon, fumbling with the holster before cramming it into their belt. They tear the map away as well and stuff it in their shirt, churning earth from the floor as they pivot to leave.

“You’re going to want to run,” they hiss, pushing past Hunk for the entrance. The blood on their blade is beginning to dry; it stains the metal black in the single stream of moonlight.

“What are you talking about?” Hunk drags Lance to his feet and follows the stranger closely out into the garden. The flowers are still blooming, petals stirring even though the air is still. “The only intruder here is _you._ ”

“Not anymore.” They cock their head to one side, listening. Somewhere beyond the citadel the bell continues to ring. A cacophony of low, angry voices are beginning to swell near the entrance, spilling into the cavernous lower halls of the fort.

The stranger casts one glance at the pair before turning to run.

“W- _Wait!”_ Lance stumbles into a jog, trailing them down the back hallway. Hunk tails them both. “I’m still in handcuffs!”

“Not my problem!”

“Yeah, it actually _is!_ ”

They jerk to a stop at the end of the hall where it splits into two directions. The voices are closer, echoing from either direction towards them. Lance crashes into their back, nearly knocking them both over.

“Would you _quit following me?_ ” They make a split decision to duck right, hugging the wall as it zigzags. There are no windows to indicate where they’re going. “I’m trying to make an escape!”

“I’m still handcuffed!”

“I don’t care!”

“Um, guys? I think we’ve got company,” Hunk pants, looking behind them. They’re being tailed by a huge guy with another one of the weird guns clenched in one meaty fist. He _definitely_ isn’t anybody Lance has ever seen before, but he’s got the insignia stitched in his tunic all the same. He lifts the gun and points it at them.

“Hunk! _Left!_ ”

They lunge to one side just as a blast rings through the air, momentarily deafening them all. A chunk of rock explodes from the wall at their right and curls into dust. The air smells like heat and iron.

“Oh my god,” Hunk gasps, tears filling his eyes. “Oh my _god—”_

They suddenly pop out into another, smaller garden. Lance has half a second to register it as the southeastern wing before the huge man explodes out into the open behind them. He snarls, baring a mouth full of gums, and lifts the weapon again. There’s nowhere to hide.

“Cover your eyes!” The stranger screams, coming up short. They lift the blade and slash it across their arm again, reopening the wound from earlier. Blood sprays out everywhere.

There’s a second — _half a second_ , Lance thinks dazedly — where he can see the dark droplets arc through the air, falling towards the earth in slow motion. The brute smiles beatifically, gun gleaming in the light, and curls his finger over the button. _He’s going to fire again._

The blood hits the ground first.

A horrifying _crack_ splits the air again, filling Lance’s ears as the world begins to tip on its axis. He’s floating, _falling_ , impossible warm darkness smothering him from the legs up, squeezing around his torso, swallowing up his abdomen over his neck and face. From faraway he can hear Hunk screaming, the sound blurry as if from underwater. The air is _hot_ , blisteringly so, and Lance can’t see or breathe or anything. He feels as if he’s being set on fire.

And then he feels nothing at all.


	2. Trekking Northeast

_“A bond born from journey is a bond born from lifeblood.”_

_-Citadel Proverbs: Lessons on Living_

++

 

As it turns out, dying feels a lot like sleeping. Who knew?

Lance floats along in the empty space like flotsam. He can’t really feel any of his body but he supposes that’s par for the course; you can’t feel what isn’t there, right?  

But if he’s dead then why is it so _noisy?_

“Wake up already would you?”

“He’s breathing again—”

“ _Open your eyes_ , dammit—”

“He’s breathing! Stop that!”

Okay, so maybe he isn’t dead.

An echo of pain ripples down Lance’s spine; he sucks in one breath, then two. His whole body aches, tingling from head to toe as if every limb has fallen asleep. It’s not unlike waking from one of the dreams, really.

A breeze, blessedly cool, fans over Lance’s cheeks. He groans appreciatively.

“Open your eyes, drama queen,” a low voice mutters. “Come _on_.”

Slowly, Lance cracks open his eyelids, grimacing at the gritty feel. Above him, huge purple eyes gleam in the dark. The half-mask has been torn away from the stranger’s face, baring a pointed nose and the soft curve of lips. It turns out the dark stranger is a boy who looks to be no older than Lance himself. _He’s beautiful_ , half of his brain mumbles.

They stare at each other for a long moment.

“I’m not dead, am I?” Lance croaks. His throat feels like it’s coated in sand.

“No,” Purple-Eyed Beauty says. He leans back, sighing heavily. “Not yet.”

“How comforting.” Lance blinks, staring at the open, dark sky. The moon is halfway in its descent, hovering above the hills as if ready to land. _What time was it when we left..?_ “Um, where are we?”

“Northeast of Al’Sae,” Hunk chips in, peering at Lance from over the beauty’s shoulder. “Pretty boy warped us here using his weird blood mumbo jumbo.”  
  
“I _told_ you, it’s earth energy.”

“Pretty boy,” Lance mumbles. His limbs are mostly awake now; he sits up suddenly, wincing as all the blood rushes to his head.  “A good name,” he grits out. “Got a real one?”

The boy sits back, looking between the two of them with a troubled expression. He curls his tongue over one lip, chewing on it, stretching the silence thin.

“Keith,” he says finally. “My name is Keith.”

“Keith,” Lance echoes. “Cool.” He rubs one hand on his capris and sticks it out to shake like his mama taught him. “The name’s Lance.”  
  
Keith stares down at his hand as if Lance pulled it out of his pants.

“Alright, never mind then.”

“I’m Hunk,” Hunk blurts, flushing pink almost immediately. “I mean, maybe you already knew that from _back there,_ but yeah.” His eyes flicker back and forth between the two of them. “Uh, I know it’s probably a little late for this, but you’re not going to kill us right?”

Keith raises both eyebrows. He looks genuinely surprised, mouth popping open. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Why would—” Lance splutters. “Are you _kidding_ me? You held a _knife_ to my _neck!_ I could have died!”

“Don’t be stupid,” Keith says, getting to his feet. He places his hands on his hips in a comical echo of Lance’s mama. “If I _really_ wanted to kill you, you both would have died a long time ago.”   
“How comforting,” Lance sneers. “You’ve really soothed my fears.”

“Look, what more do you want from me?” He runs one gloved hand through his hair. It’s almost abhorrent how good it looks, even with the ends of it curling around his neck. “I already busted you guys out. You should be _thanking_ me.”

“You’re right.” Lance squints up at Keith with a scowl. “Thanks to you we can’t return home! What are we supposed to do now, kick around in the bushes?”

“Oh god,” Hunk groans. “I think I left my bedroom window open. The mice are going to find my snacks under my bed.” He frowns. “Do you think that’ll make it easier to catch them?”

“No. Nope. I am _not_ living off of mice.”

“What, you want to become a vegetarian?”

“Well, whatever you two plan to do, you should figure it out soon.” Keith nods towards the sinking moon, calm-as-you-please, as if he isn’t the source of everything that’s occurred in the past couple of hours. “Night’s almost over.”

“Well what are _you_ going to do?”

“What, you think I’m going to tell you?” Keith pauses, kicking a stone down the hillside, and casts a glance at the pair glaring at him. He shuffles for a moment. “I’m making for the highroad.”

“By yourself?” Hunk tilts his head to one side, sizing up Keith in his cloak and poorly-concealed gun. _That the citadel had_ , Lance’s brain supplies unhelpfully. “Won’t that be dangerous? The citadel will be looking for you.”

Keith shrugs. “It won’t be a problem. I’ve done stuff like this before.”

“You _what?_ ” Lance practically chokes on his own spit. _Who on earth did we get sorted with?_ “Are you telling us you’re a criminal?”

“And you guys aren’t, now?” Keith sighs, squaring his shoulders. He looks between the two of them, smoothing his furrowed brow into something serene and detached. “Well, it’s none of my business. Now that you’re awake I can leave. Thanks for that.”

“Hold it,” Lance snaps, getting to his feet. He has to squeeze his eyes shut for just a moment to stop the world from spinning and suck in another breath; when he opens them again, Keith has wrapped his mask around the bottom of his face again. His eyes glint in the dark, utterly black.

“What?”

“You’re taking us with you.”

Keith cocks an eyebrow. “Am I?”

“He is?” Hunk echoes.

“You owe it to us, pretty boy. If it weren’t for you, Hunk and I would be going home soon for breakfast.” Lance scowls, hating how his stomach swoops at the thought of home. _Mama will be waking up soon, and nobody will be there to greet her._ The idea is like a punch to the solar plexus. But what else can he do? “ _You’re_ the one who grabbed us. You’re stuck with us for now.”

Lance doesn’t know what to expect — maybe for Keith to throw a fit, or do his weird disappearing act again and leave them in the dust. The kid certainly _seems_ hellbent on staying detached; he takes care to maintain distance, chin lifted defiantly against their accusations. What he gets instead is one long, scrutinizing squint before Keith throws up his hands in resignation.

“Fine, whatever. I’m not going to save your ass if bad stuff happens, though.”

“Wouldn’t dream on it,” Lance replies sweetly.

And so begins their travel northeast for the highroad.

++

For all the times over the years that they’ve been stuck with guard duty, travelling at night serves as its own spectacle. Sure, the anxiety of being caught plagues their movements like a sickness, pushing them even when their calves burn and they should feel tired; Lance’s eyes burn from his forgetting to blink and he catches Hunk staring up at the stars as if lost in the darkness there.

But even then, driven to widen the gap between them and Al’Sae, the night is its own world. Everything is reduced to grayscale. Lance’s arms are almost as dark as his shadow; the glint of Hunk’s teeth when he chews his lip sparkling white like snow. The moon hangs massive and perfectly round over the three of them like a huge, milky eye watching their travel.

They stay quiet through the moon’s descent. Lance can’t imagine what they would talk about anyway.

He tries to focus on making headway. Keith is always several steps ahead, playing lead; he never looks back when Lance stumbles over a loose stone, or when Hunk stops to help him check his ankle for rolling. Lance wishes he could imitate that stoicism, staying focused entirely on the road ahead. He _should_. He’s never seen what a gun could do to somebody but the history books are enough. He shouldn’t be so preoccupied, for all of their sakes.

But it’s so, so hard.

Every footfall northeast is one step more between Lance and his mama. Even now the need for her warmth and the familiarity of her small figure and strength is a bone-deep ache weighing his legs down. He _needs_ her like he needs water; he’s never gone more than a couple of hours without her. His mama would know what to say to fix all of this. She’s sure as the spring rain, steadfast as the hills themselves.

He’s leaving her behind.

Lance blinks hard, eyes burning. He can feel bile in the back of his throat, threatening to overshadow the final traces of his last meal — but he can’t let it overtake him. If he thinks too hard now, lets himself go here, they’ll never make it to wherever they’re going. Call it a seventh sense.

He sucks in breaths, steady like waking from a dream. _One. Two._ He pops the joints in his hands, methodical from pinkie to thumb on his right hand, then his left. He’ll go through the motions. He’ll make it. He has to. _I have to._

He’ll do it for Hunk. He’ll do it for his mama. What _it_ is he doesn’t know yet, but Lance will do it. Anything to come back home and say _I love you_ one last time.

They walk for hours. The sky swims with more stars than Hunk and Lance have ever seen behind the lit walls of Al’Sae, then begins to fade away in glimmering sheets. The world is indigo, then lighter, and lighter still. Dew collects on the hills and wets their sandaled feet. The tiny summer birds twitter, sensing fresh dawn sometime soon.

“Keith,” Hunk murmurs when the moon brushes the horizon. The sky has brightened in shades of rose, blushing before the sun breaches the sky. “We need to take a break soon.”  
  
Keith slows but doesn’t turn around. “The highroad will be coming up in less than an hour. We can make it until then.”  
  
“Maybe _you_ can, but we can’t.” Hunk frowns, swallowing around the scratchiness of his throat. “We’re not used to traveling like this. We need a break.”  
  
“But the highroad—”  
  
“Can wait.” Hunk waits for Keith to come to a complete stop. The cloaked boy’s shoulders look oddly bulky, bunched near his ears in agitation. Hunk’s face softens through his exhaustion. “I understand you want to make headway. Citadel after us and all that. Sure. But my feet are going to kill me faster than any gun if we don’t sit for a breather.”

Keith looks over his shoulder, sharp furrow between his eyes. _If he frowns any harder he’ll give himself a headache,_ Lance thinks.

“For how long?”

“Until my feet don’t kill me anymore.”  
  
“I don’t know how long that is.” Keith scowls, brows raising uncertainly. His fists clench at his sides. “I feel just fine.”  
  
“Great, you can carry me.” Lance flops down on the ground, sprawling back into the side of the hill. The grass soaks through his tunic to his undershirt, sticking it to his skin, but it’s alright. Hunk is a little more careful when he sits, folding his legs neatly into criss-cross, and groans gratefully at the weight off his feet.

Keith looks at the two of them and plops down stiffly a few feet away. After a moment or two, he remembers his bag and slides it off his shoulders. Off goes to the gun and the coiled map under his waistband; he trails one gloved hand over the scroll before smoothing it open.

Lance sits up on his palms and peers as best he can.

The land and sea of their world stretches across the old parchment, gleaming greens and browns and blues that withstood time. There’s the bean-shape of the southern continent with its expanse of desert, curling up on one end into the grasslands; a ribbon of lush emerald stretches across the fringe of the desert’s foot below, reaching towards the endless sea. Islands scatter at the northern edge, freckling the Sea of Saints that splits the two main land masses. For the most part, the bottom half of canvas is a familiar landscape Lance recognizes from the citadel.

The top half is a different story. He never knew how big the northern continent was — there was no need to, the priests figured, since they were expected to never leave Al’Sae. The chunk of earth is absolutely _massive;_ it dwarfs their bean of a landscape, stretching to be at least twice its size. The land is just gradients of green and darker green, curving up around a center of blue like devil’s horns tipped in white. _That’s where the snow is,_ he realizes with a thrill. The top of the map is hatched in grey, inked with tiny letters: _permanent ice lives here._

One of Keith’s hands trails across the grassland stretch where they are and snakes north to the northwestern tip of the continent. His fingers linger over a massive port-city there — the last southern soil before crossing into the open sea.

“Is that where you plan on going?” Lance asks, looking up to Keith’s face. His eyes are unreadable.

“Something like that,” Keith mutters. He lifts one hand and lets the map curl up again, rolling the scroll and stuffing it back under his belt. Lance eyes the paper but knows better than to press.

They sit in silence as the moon trades places with the sun, the world lightening around them into a new day.

++

Lance wasn’t sure what he was expecting when they breached the last hill but it certainly wasn’t this.

“There it is,” Hunk breathes, relieved. “The highroad.”

The path juts up out of the soil by at least half a foot, stretching two-houses-wide through the hillside dips and valleys. Where the hills are unruffled and golden the highroad looks like some sort of fleshy growth; thousands of travelers have churned the soil into muck, warping the ground before it dried and cracked under the unforgiving sun. The effect is not unlike a scab, picked at and worried under fingernails until it no longer resembles the original wound.

“It’s ugly.” Lance echoes his thoughts. “Huh.”  
  
“Were you expecting something nice?” Keith sniffs, crossing his arms. He eyes the tiny travelers on the path with distaste, scrutinizing minutiae movements like a hawk. “A carpet to walk on?”

“A paved road, maybe.” Lance rubs crust from the corners of his eyes; his eyeballs feel like they’re coated in sand. _How long ago was my last face wash..?_

Maybe he shouldn’t think too hard about it.

“Come on then.” Keith squares his shoulders and starts down the hillside, sliding sideways through the dirt and dried growth like a natural. The puffs of dust in his wake are more than a little annoying — he leaves a streak, careless and cool as you please without even looking back — but Lance has already figured out how to mimic him. He shuffles along right after Keith, leaning into the bend to pick up speed. Hunk sputters but follows along with a tired _hey!_

Dewslick rolls off Lance’s calves as he rushes through the tall grass, whipping around his capris hard enough to faintly sting, but he barely feels it. The air is blessedly cool; it stings the corners of his eyes and Lance tastes the flavor of earth. He grins, baring teeth savagely as Keith’s figure comes closer and closer.

“Not so fast, pretty—”

Keith’s sudden stop sends Lance crashing straight into him, knocking them over-end into the roadside filth. Keith snarls viciously, shoving the taller boy off of his thighs, but the flush across his cheeks mirrors Lance’s own.

Lance’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear the swift _swoosh_ of his own blood coursing through veins. He’s got a solid mouthful of dirt but it does little to quell the brief thrill fluttering in his ribcage; he can’t help but bark a laugh around the grit wedged in his gums.

Keith squints at him and tries to rub excess off black pants. The earth smears the fabric a dull brown, ashy where inky threads used to gleam underneath. Lance laughs a little louder and doesn’t miss the playful way Keith catches one lip through his teeth. His eyes are crinkling at the edges ever so gently.

“What’s so funny?” Keith retorts, determined to be petulant despite the steady rise and fall of his chest. He doesn’t seem to mind his filthy clothes at all — a dirty outfit to match his awful hair. It should be gross (and it really kinda is) but Lance finds himself looking past it. _For now._

“Nothing,” Lance chirps. He gets to his feet and yanks Keith up with one arm, giving him a lopsided smile. “It’s nothing.”

Hunk’s caution makes for a slow, steady descent down the hillside. He comes to a stop at the decline, shaking his head at the sight of them. The way he clucks his tongue has always reminded Lance of his own mother, or one of the hens in a neighbor’s yard.

“If you guys weren’t gross before, now you’re really dirty.” Hunk’s nose scrunches. “Don’t be giving out any hugs anytime soon, would you?”

“What, don’t want a hug from your best pal?” Lance waggles his eyebrows and plants his hands on his now-soiled hips. “Some friend you are.”

“Give me a hug after you bathe.”  
“A real friend would love me regardless of how gross I am.”   
“No, Lance,” Hunk says patiently. “It’s because I love you that I’m telling you you’re gross. Don’t hug me until you bathe.”

Lance stretches his arms above his head, following Keith’s steps lazily. Dried grass sprinkles from the tunic sleeves like a fine confetti. “Sure, sure,” he chirps, waving one hand at Hunk. “I’ll let you know when I find a bathtub around here.”

Several hours pass without them being bothered. Lance would like to think it’s because they don’t look suspicious by any means; Hunk would argue that it simply has to do with the lack of people on the road. It’s probably a mixture of both.

For being a major vein from one grassland city to another there aren’t a lot of highroad travelers. They go whole stretches where nobody else is in sight; the second half of the morning is utter silence aside from their footsteps and the slow, rumbling hum-song of Hunk taking the back. Lance breathes with his mouth open and chews dust. A hawk screams somewhere overhead.

“You would think they’d be searching for us by now,” Hunk comments when the sun perches at its pinnacle. The warmth is enough to force them to the roadside in the meager shade of a withering tree. Sweat beads on every visible surface of skin; they glisten like fired pottery, browning under harsh rays. ”Keith. Didn’t you say we’re wanted now?”

“It’s a safe guess.” The dark-haired boy pauses, rubbing dust into his greasy mullet. “Citadels hate it when you take their stuff.”  
  
“What, like you’ve done it before?” Lance raises his eyebrows. At this point Keith could say he’s been to the moon and back and it would seem normal. The boy has barely shared anything about himself aside from his propensity for criminal activity. With the overlying power of the country, no less.

Lance doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that Keith doesn’t even answer. His mouth does that thing where it purses like Keith is sucking on an old, drying lemon, brow lowering until it mushes over his almond eyes. It’s the kind of face that Lance is already learning means _I’ve got something to say but you won’t like it._

Alright, so maybe he _doesn’t_ actually want to know what Keith does on the daily.

“So what do we do now?” Hunk shades his eyes with one hand and squints out over the stretching expanse of grassland. For all the mileage they’ve made today, everything looks exactly the same. The only differences are the movement of sun and shadow and the steady collection of filth on their feet. “We can’t just keep walking forever. Do you have any idea on what to eat? Where to sleep?”  
  
“The closest town is another half day’s walk away.” Keith thumbs the crumpled map at his belt and frowns. “I don’t know if we can go there, though.”  
  
“What, did you steal their secret artifacts too?” Lance snipes.

Keith glares at him. “More like we’re recognizable. If the citadel has sent word out — and believe me, they have — then the other towns will be on the lookout for us. We’ll have to sneak in or get lucky on our own.”  
  
“Lucky? Out in the middle of nowhere?” Hunk echoes, popping off one sandal to massage his foot. “You’re basically telling us we have to sneak in.”

Keith doesn’t say any more, crossing his arms and staring out over the hills. The way his shoulders seem permanently glued to his ears says he’s spoken enough for now; any intimation about their future will be solved in silence or entirely on the fly.

Lance has never been one for plans but he’d kill for a good sit-down about everything so far. Keith’s stoicism is both admirable and infuriating; the mullet-haired boy moves along silently, even after Hunk and Lance have long begun to feel the edges of exhaustion and hunger. They complain between the two of them but Keith never admits to his own pains. Eventually even complaining takes up too much energy, and conversation dries up again.

The hip flask given along with the citadel uniform isn’t particularly large or well-insulated; the water inside, already partially drunk when they made their escape, empties out completely just as the sun begins to set. Keith divests strips of jerky and handfuls of nuts but has little else to share from his tiny pack.

Lance’s stomach aches with hunger in a manner he’s only been privy to several times in his life, when things between his mama and him were stretched a little too thin. It’s a sensation he despises on regular terms, much less the ones where he walks all day on blistered, grubby feet through an empty highroad.

“This is it,” he mumbles, tongue heavy in his mouth, as the hills begin to glow with red light. “I’m going to have to eat grass. I can’t believe this.”  
  
“Believe it,” Hunk mumbles. “I already have.”

“You’re sure you don’t have anything we can eat in that bag?” Lance eyeballs Keith’s bag for the fifth time in the past ten minutes. “Anything at all?”

“I already gave you guys what I could,” Keith hisses. He’s probably at his wits end, what with the constant complaining and the divulging of his own supplies to near-strangers. _Should have thought of that before you dragged us into your theft_ , Lance thinks spitefully. “For the last time, there’s nothing. Not unless you want to eat my clothes.”

Lance eyeballs his black tunic in distaste. The thing is covered in dust and sweat stains and stinks something fierce now that the heat has gotten into the fabric. “Hard pass.”  
  
“That’s what I thought.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re off the list though, pretty boy. I know you’ve gotta have something like, sewn into the lining or whatever. Isn’t that what thieves do?”

“I — what? What are you even talking about?”

“You know, like in the fairy tales where they stitch knives into secret pockets and shit—”

“Guys,” Hunk says, stopping suddenly. The two, caught up in their chatter, slam right into his back. Lance’s jaw clicks against Keith’s shoulder and he narrowly misses biting his own tongue. “ _Look._ ”

The last twist in the highroad reveals a homestead on a far hill, small and picturesque against the fiery sunset. It’s close enough to reach in the next half hour if they walk quickly.

“Oh thank god,” Hunk groans, sagging to his knees. “We don’t have to eat grass.”

Up close the homestead’s wall stands as tall as two people on each other’s shoulders. There’s one main gate of solid stone, lit by lanterns on either side, that stretches as wide as a wagon. A single guard is posted; he squints at them through the slot in the gate.

“State your business.”  
  
Lance steps forward. “Just passing through. Any chance we can get a bite to eat here?”

The guard’s eyes flicker between the three of them. Lance cringes internally — they make quite the picture, covered in dust and greasy from sweat — but puts on his most winning smile his mama always loves.

The guard stares unblinkingly at him, mouth curling down like curdled milk. “If you have no business with the Holts, then leave.”  
  
Lance’s smile drops. “Wait a sec, we just—”

“We don’t deal in handouts. Come back with actual business.” The guard bares his teeth and goes to slide the slot shut.

“Hold on—”  
  
“Would you just—”  
  
“Well, well. Who do we have here?” A new, feminine voice pipes up from somewhere over the wall. The guard goes still, looks over his shoulder, and quickly ducks into a bow away from the gate.

“Ma’am. There are some road wanderers asking for a handout.”  
  
“Wanderers? Really?” The guard steps aside and a new face takes his place. The woman looks soft and sweet, with hazel eyes and hair as short as Lance’s. She peers at the three of them in turn. “You’re just a couple of kids. Let them in, Randall. A meal won’t kill us.”

Randall doesn’t look the least bit pleased but knows better than to disagree. “As you wish, Mrs. Holt.”

The garden past the front gate flourishes with full ferns and crawling succulents that deny all odds to bloom under the open sun. Lance can’t help but gawk at it all, sidestepping where one desert bloom spills into the cobbled walkway. The garden reminds him of the citadel’s except more wild.

“‘Scuse me for asking,” he says hesitantly, “but.. do you happen to be a Hearer?” Living far from the citadel walls is unusual but not unheard of; the priests have been heard to allow it, as long as some sort of pilgrimage is habitually made to convene.

“Not me,” Mrs. Holt sighs, shoulders slumping. Her fingers graze over the pinpricks of a red bush Lance has never seen before. “My children both are. Very talented, as you can see.”  
  
The Holt homestead juts from the earth in curious, blocky chunks like a special rock Lance once saw. He can see where the stones have been hewn from the same dirt and grit as Al’Sae’s buildings, smoothed with mud, but the rooms zig-zag away rather than sitting uniform. When they enter through the atrium, the ceiling rises above them in steps like an onion.

“Dinner has just been served,” Mrs. Holt says, “but you’re welcome to take the leftovers. Heavens know I can’t eat it all myself.”

“Yourself?” Hunk echoes. “But I thought you said you had two kids.”  
  
Mrs. Holt squares her shoulders and leads them into a small dining area.

The food is standard fare — beans and herbal broth, warm bread, iced tea, bits of salted meat that Keith tears into with a ferocity that is honestly disgusting — and Lance thanks every lucky star he’s got. After a day on the road the meal is the best he’s ever had.

Mrs. Holt leaves them to their moaning and groaning for a while, waiting patiently for them to get their fill. Lance stuffs himself until his belly aches and follows obediently when she gestures for them to sit in a study with her.

The walls are covered in curious paintings and trinkets, the biggest of all being a family portrait: Mrs. Holt beams on the upper right, hands curling around the shoulder of a small girl who must be her daughter. Beside the girl sits an older boy who’s almost her spitting image and then the father.

“My pride and joy,” Mrs. Holt murmurs, taking a slow sip of her tea. “I could have done no better.”  
  
“Pardon me for asking.” Hunk runs his hands over the elaborate threading of the couch. “Are.. they gone?”

“Gone?” Mrs. Holt echoes. She laughs, shaking her head. “Well. They’re certainly not here.”  
  
He frowns. “I’m afraid we don’t understand.”  
  
“The citadels, boy.” Mrs. Holt leans back and sighs, nails tapping on her glass. “The citadels have my children.”

“An honor, then,” Lance supplies. Beside him Keith snorts audibly.   
  
“Oh yes. Matt, my son, has been recognized for his talents. They moved him all the way to Al’tea to further his studies.”  
  
Hunk and Lance share a look of disbelief. _Whoa._ “Th-the capital, ma’am? You must be so proud. He was probably handpicked, right?”

“Yes, of course. They sent me a letter to tell me about his displacement.”

Keith perks up. “A letter?” He sits on the edge of the couch, balancing his arms on his knees, and the pit stink is just enough to curl Lance’s lip. “The citadel sent one?”

Mrs. Holt nods. “He’s been gone for almost a year now. Katie could barely bear to be without him.”  
  
Lance’s eyes flicker up to the painting again, where Katie and Matt are holding hands and crossing ankles in their chairs. They’re positively beaming. “I bet.”

“So, then,” Keith pushes on. “Since you got the letter. Do you hear from him at all? Does he send anything back?”

“Don’t be rude, Keith,” Hunk hisses, nudging him hard. “We’re sorry for the intrusion, Mrs. Holt.”

“No offense taken.” The lines around her eyes are heavily creased and worry further as she speaks. “And to answer your questions, no. Not since he was moved.” She pauses, licking her lips. “He used to send bimonthly letters to his sister, see, but had to stop when he moved further away. Put her into a huge fuss and she ran right after him without asking anybody — gave her father and I a right fit.”  
  
Keith absorbs this quietly, eyes flickering between Mrs. Holt and the painting on the wall. He looks almost like he’s going to be ill. Lance leans in and tries to mouth to him. _What’s up?_

Keith glances at him and his mouth pulls down. He turns away.

“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am,” Keith murmurs. His hand barely trembles when he goes to tuck hair behind his ears. “We aren’t bothering you, are we?”

“Not at all. But.. you wouldn’t happen to have news of what goes on south of here, would you? My husband will be back soon from L’irea, but we hear little of anywhere else.”  
  
“Of course,” Keith replies easily. And then, as if he didn’t already have enough up those damn sleeves, Keith launches into vivid descriptions of the going-ons of Al’Sae and the towns southeast of it, stretching into the right half of the continent.

Hunk and Lance exchange a look of disbelief. Just how much is this kid hiding?

“You’re a sweet bunch,” Mrs. Holt finally announces, smiling tiredly at the three of them. The clock in the study’s corner ticks two hours to midnight. “Would you be willing to stay for a night? I understand how hard the road can be.”

“That would be wonderful,” Keith replies. It’s as if Hunk and Lance aren’t even the room what with how he nods and smooths at his pants. “Thanks.”  
  
Lance squints at his back the whole way to their guest quarters, ignoring the weird artifacts on the walls and the foreign rugs. Keith never looks back but seems nearly bored with the whole situation. Of course.

He counts to ten after Mrs. Holt leaves them in a double-bunk room with amenities before pouncing.

“So, what’s up with you?”

Keith goes stiff, freezing in removing one sandal. His placid expression sours almost as soon as Lance starts talking, mouth pulling down as he slaps his foot back to the floor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Yes, you do. What crawled into your tunic and died?”

“Lance,” Hunk warns, placing one large hand on his shoulder. Lance shrugs it off.

“You’ve been stone cold. What gives? If you’re gonna drag us into your mess, you might as well enlighten us on what’s going on. How do you know all this stuff about the other side of the continent?” He scowls darkly, hating how his face aches. “Who actually _are_ you?”

Keith leans back on his bed, brow furrowed deeply. His shoulders are knotting again, fists clenching into the soft sheets, but the way his eyes scrunch reminds him of someone caught in a dust storm. He looks almost ready to cry.

“That’s none of your business.”  
  
“Sorry, but it actually _is._ You can’t just — just leave us out to dry, man. You wanna know something in return or what?” Lance exhales noisily through his nose, hating how his dinner churns in his gut. He swallows around the sudden stone in his throat. “I’m scared shitless and I want to go _home_.”

Keith’s eyes flicker between the pair of them. He sucks in a long breath and lets it whistle out through his teeth. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Are you actually, though?”

“ _Yes._ ” When he tears off his gloves they hit the floor with a soft _smack._ “Really. I didn’t mean to bring you guys with me. It was a mistake, okay?”

“What are you going to do?” Hunk kicks off one sandal, grimacing at the grime lines beneath it. “The fault is on you, buddy.”

“I don’t know.” Keith wrings his bare hands. The difference between his bare, sunburned arms and the white of his hands is annoyingly distracting; Lance finds his eyes drawn to the movements, the odd cleanliness of his fingernails. “I didn’t plan for this.”  
  
“No offense, but it doesn’t seem like you plan for much.”  
  
“No.”

They all stare at each other quietly. Keith runs one hand through his greasy locks before pulling the map free of his belt again. He doesn’t speak as he kneels on the floor, spreading the canvas open for them to see again. Lance rubs at the amounting migraine he’s been carrying for the past day.

“So are you going to answer, or—”

“Here.” Keith points to the northern continent, the jagged snow-capped mountains that line the northwest like scars. “That’s where I’m going.” He looks up and stares Lance straight in the eye.

Lance’s mouth goes dry. His eyes flicker back down to the map. The mountains are a massive web, tipped in white cross-hatching. _Permanent ice lives here._ He feels the coldest trickle dripping down his spine, raising goosebumps.

Hunk is the first to recover. “Why?”

Keith licks his lips. His eyes drag away from Lance’s to raise an eyebrow at Hunk. “To find the enclaves.”

The room goes quiet again.

In the years spent at the citadel there was almost never talk of any defying forces. The priests read mainly from books written by predecessors, scrolls and writs made after the Fall by the first Hearers of the new age. It was easy to grow up believing everyone was on the same side — what need was there to be anything else? The citadel was safe and strong, providing for all its people.

But Lance remembers hearing talk of crime a couple towns over, back when he was about fifteen. He overheard the conversation after accidentally falling asleep in a nice fern in one of the smaller gardens.

_“Held up on his way north. The bastards jumped the caravan and took his books, his letters. Everything with details on the citadel was stolen.”_

“The enclaves, then.”  
_  
_ “Who else?”

Lance didn’t know who or what an enclave was. When he asked one of the priestesses she frowned, crossing herself in the archaic manner some priests still held onto. She placed on hand on his shoulder and squeezed so tight that it hurt.

_“Don’t tell the other apprentices about this. They will ask questions that are not healthy.”_

_“Yes ma’am. I’m sorry.”_

Of course he went right home and told Hunk, including the woman’s instructions to forget. They sat at Lance’s kitchen table and pondered what an enclave was for the whole evening. Eventually, without any answers, the words passed into memory and were forgotten.

“I didn’t think those were real,” Hunk murmurs, bringing Lance out of his stupor. He’s managed to tear off his other sandal and moved on to his tunic, dismantling the belt and sliding the grubby fabric over his head. “I thought they were like ghosts or something. Mystery highwaymen.”  
  
Keith scoffs. “No. They’re definitely real. They’ve got all the information I need.”  
  
“On what?”

Keith ignores Lance’s query. “I broke into your citadel to grab some things I’d need for the road. Didn’t think there was going to be anyone around to stop me.” He shakes his head. “Guard details weren’t in the notes.”

“You have _notes_ ?” Hunk almost drops his provided towel. “Are they like, _in-depth_? How much do you have?”

“Enough,” Keith snaps. He refuses to make eye contact as he undresses. “Can we stop talking about me?”

Lance chews over all the info as he dresses down himself, following the others out to the bathroom area Mrs. Holt provided. The floor in the outside bath is cold to the touch; the goosebumps, still present from earlier, crawls up his shins and slithers over his thighs like a reverse tide. Lance steps in last and draws his knees to his chest. Keith stares at him from across space.

The washing process is slow and steady. Mrs. Holt is kind enough to give them a wooden comb and disposable scrubs to rub the filth from their bodies. Lance helps Hunk reach the middle of his back and then focuses on his own limbs. Keith focuses on working soap into his mullet. The silence stretches.

The repetitive motions of bathing allow room for minds to breathe. Lance can’t tear his brain away from that map and his dreams, creeping on his waking mind like the drifting snowfall that plagues his slumber. He’s spent his whole life looking for signs that the earth is leading him somewhere. He used to stay up and stare at his notes, hoping, _waiting._

The citadel changed that after a time. His dreams made him a vehicle for the earth’s voice but that was all he was; his purpose, they claimed, was to represent his town well and hold them up with his talent. The idea was sweet. Lance could have the family he’d always wanted with lots of kids while serving as one of the local priests for the citadel. He liked to teach after all.

But then he closes his eyes and sees it all over again. The itch deep under his skin tells him he should look past the wall but he doesn’t know _how_ ; his mama needs him, just as he needs her. Hunk needs him. How can he leave them and be selfish?

_You have Hunk now_ , part of his brain whispers. Lance’s eyes flit to Hunk; he’s finished his hair and floats on the top of the water, staring at the moon. The shadows under his eyes are unmistakable.

The voice of reason in Lance’s mind — comically similar to real Hunk’s voice — reminds him to think of himself. He hasn’t forgotten the earth. The earth hasn’t forgotten him. And now, in the middle of this mess created out of his hands, comes a stranger who leads the way to the world of his dreams.

Does he take it?

Lance licks salt from his lips and lets himself sink up to his ears. He can’t quell the ache for his mama, for everything he’s left behind, for the unshakable weight that says he’s a burden for dragging Hunk down. So much of this could have never happened if Lance had stayed at his post and done his job. Everything could still be as it was.

_But it isn’t. What do you do now?_

Lance closes his eyes and lets the water slip over his head.

++

Breakfast is a short and easy affair. Mrs. Holt gives them enough food for the next few days, spreading it between three packs. She offers fresh water and balm for chapped or burned skin. She lets Hunk take the recipe for her dried fruit scones.

“Thank you so much,” he whispers, nearly tearing up. The paper crinkles in his hands and disappears into the pack with the rest of her generosity. “Is there any way we can repay you?”

Mrs. Holt gives them a long look. The early morning casts her body in rumpled fabric lines and soft shadows, lighting the homestead behind her in a dull, bronzy glow. She smiles and pats them each on the shoulder. Lance shudders longingly; even under her floral perfume, the woman reminds him somehow of his mama.

“Stay steadfast on your journey. That’s all I ask.”  
  
As they make way towards the opening front gate Keith takes off one glove and drags his palm over a small cactus. His blood smears wet across his palm like watercolors, beading onto the pinpricks of the plant, running along the needles as light as dew. After a moment several small crimson buds begin to grow out, unfurling gossamer petals in the dawn. They’re lovely.

Keith never looks back but Lance sees the edge of his smile anyway.

By the good graces of Mrs. Holt they’re able to skip the next town. Lance has never been in any establishment aside from Al’Sae but Keith tells him he isn’t missing much. From where they stand on a hill several birdflights away he can see the familiar walls and brown buildings as his own. The citadel spires are smaller and less adorned but mostly the same, too.

“We’ll pass straight over and head for where the highroad meets up again,” Keith says when they break fast for a quick lunch. The bread is still fresh; Keith keeps a piece in his mouth while using his hands to point their trail out on the map. His finger trails north to L’irea as it had several days before. “And then make our way up the river when we meet it. We should be able to get on a boat there or something.”

“Or something,” Lance echoes.

Keith’s eyes flicker up and he makes a face around his mouthful of food. “Got any better ideas?”

“Nope.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“A boat.” Hunk’s eyes squint at the swathe of blue. “What if one of us gets seasick? What then?”

“I dunno, hold it in?”

“Wh— you can’t _hold in_ barf Keith, it’s not a spigot or whatever—”

“Listen, listen.” Lance leans in and wipes leftover crumbs off his tunic. “We’ll just worry about it when we get there. If you don’t think about it now, maybe it won’t be so bad.”  
  
“Now you’re starting to sound like Keith.”

“Hunk,” Lance groans. “Please don’t say that ever again.”

“So _a boat,_ ” Keith repeats, snatching the map from Lance to brush off the crumbs. “We’ll take a boat.”

“Sure, sure.” Lance waves a hand at him and gets to his feet to stretch. “How bad can it be?”

++

“You just had to ask,” Keith hisses. “You just _had_ to, huh?”

“I don’t see how this is my fault.” Lance sidesteps Hunk, who is now prone after his second vomiting session that day. It’s only an hour after breakfast. “You said to get a boat, so I did!”

“Yeah,” the black-haired boy seethes. “You got us a boat alright. One full of _snakes!_ ”

“They really ar’n’ so bad,” the captain Clyde says cheerfully. “You jus’ have to be careful not to wake em when they’re nappin’ is all.” Hunk moans mournfully against the side of the boat.

Really, Lance doesn’t know what all the fuss is about. They’re lucky to be on a ship at all.

“Bet your notes don’t have anything to do with snake charming?” Lance asks hopefully. Keith gives him a flat look. “Alright, I’ll take that as a no.”

See, they wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for Keith. Apparently while compiling notes all about the citadels and how to survive off the grit of the earth, mullet man had failed to take in account of boat fare. Or _any_ fare for that matter.

“Were you expecting a handout or what?” Lance had side-eyed the jumble of chicken-scratch Keith called handwriting. “You have nothing about money anywhere on this page.”

“I’d take favors, I don’t know.” Keith crumpled the paper back into his bag.  
  
“Favors? Or _stealing_?” Hunk wrinkled his nose. “You do realize that’s illegal, right? Or do you not care since you’re trying to join a gang?”

“I said,” Keith gritted, “ _Favors._ I’m sure I’ll be back in the area at some point. And the enclaves aren’t a _gang_ , they’re a rebel organization—”  
  
“So stealing.”

“Listen mullet,” Lance snapped. “You may be a thief and all but even _you_ can’t steal a boat! We’ll just have to find a way around this. Charm our way on.”

“ _Or_ we ask like normal people!” Hunk shoved between them and moved on to ask about free passage from anyone who’d listen.

It had taken all afternoon to scrape the riverside. Everybody wanted payment in one form or another; prices ranged from expensive to sell-a-limb-expensive. Lance barely had any pocket lint, much less spare change. How were they supposed to get _three_ boat fares?

Until they did. There was one boat — more of a dinghy, really — that was posted at the end of the line. It was mostly stacked with boxes for L’irea, really only had space for two people lying down, but it was _free._

Lance thought it was the perfect opportunity. How was he supposed to know snakes lived in boxes?

“How much further to L’irea did you say it was?” Keith asks, hedging away from the hissing cargo.   
  
“Not too long. Just a few days.”

“Days,” Hunk moans. He flops to the floor as far from the snakes as possible, which is to say, nearly on top of where Lance is squatting. “ _Days,_ he says.”

“Hunk, your breath smells like vomit.” Hunk just groans even louder.

++

The days pass with excruciating slowness regardless of snakes. The current always runs steady to the sea; they stay generally in line with other vessels moving at the same speed, toes hanging over the edge or noses tipped up to the sky. By the graces of earth they make even time.

Keith is the first to see L’irea’s approach. The guy is practically an insomniac; even when it isn’t his turn to keep watch, his sleep is rare and guarded away from the rest of them. He doesn’t even seem to fear the snakes the same way Lance and Hunk do.

Lance’s dreams are tangled and blurry when he sleeps — the effects of missing meditation, of being separated from solid ground. When he wakes his blood runs hot in his veins like a sickness, bringing a flush to his cheeks. Snacking more and talking less become the name of the game. The bag of trail mix dwindles.

Keith shakes him awake just as the sky is settling into its familiar serene blue, digging gloved hands into his shoulder. He presses a finger to his own lips and gestures for the side of the boat, for Lance to follow him there. Lance fumbles to his feet, yawning and rubbing at the grit in his eyes.

And stops.

“Holy cow,” he breathes. “It’s fucking _huge._ ”

The dry grasslands of Al’Sae have long withered into arid desert; more shrubs and cacti dominate the cracked, sandy ground, barely visible from the sides of the ship. The distant sand dunes are little more than a blurry ripple on the horizon.

Up close is an entirely different story. From beyond the hulls of other ships and the tall, reedy stalks of riverbank growth, a massive, vertical wall juts from the earth towards the heavens. The sun reflects off of sandstone, lighting up the barricade to a golden band that defies natural physics of earth. Even the citadel of Al’Sae is a foot length compared to such enormity; from where they stand, the wall almost brushes the sun’s belly as it rises.

“This is it.” Keith looks back at him, a smile breaking out over his face. He’s almost aglow against the reflecting water. “We’re here.”

“No’ quite,” the captain says cheerfully. He pops out from behind the cargo, jerky strip in hand. He looks somewhat worse for wear — they all do, what with snakes on board hissing at every turn — but his eyes glimmer bright. “You have to get past the walls first.”  
  
“Walls.” Lance frowns. “You mean there’s more than one?”

“Three, if you’re countin’. Security gets tighter as you pass towards the citadel.”  
  
Keith and Lance exchange apprehensive looks. Somehow, Lance has a feeling the detail about three walls wasn’t in Keith’s notes either. “What can we do to get by?” Keith grits out.

“Tha’s easy.” Captain Clyde smooths his unkempt scruff. “Just don’t give ‘em a reason to stop you is all. Now are you gonna wake the big ‘un up? I’ll need help navigatin’ into port proper.”

The sight of L’irea lights a fire under everyone; as the sun climbs higher and the landscape warms up, every ship makes haste for the mouth of the river where L’irea’s harbor sits. If the larger passenger boats were a shock back in the grasslands, they’re small potatoes compared to the massive ships docked at the sea’s mouth. The dinghy is a toy boat bobbing amongst monstrosities. Lance finds himself looking up enough to get an awful crick in his neck.

They bob slowly through tumultuous ripples for the shore and tie up at the most pitiful dock Lance has ever seen, all the way at the harbor’s end. Clyde beams at all of them once the act is finished.

“You’ve been good men,” he beams, baring his single missing tooth. “Couldn’ have asked for nicer company. Stay safe, y’hear?”

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” Lance points towards the snake cargo on boat. “With the snakey specimens?” He stoutly ignores the way Hunk squeezes his forearm in a death grip. Mama didn’t raise him with no manners, after all.

“None at all. Someone will be here to get ‘em soon enough. You run along now.”  
  
“Thanks again,” Keith says warmly. He surprises them all by leaning in to shake Clyde’s hand, tilting his head towards the looming behemoth of L’irea. “Next time we see you, one’s on us.”  
  
The road from port to the great wall feels like a pilgrimage in its own right; the barrier, an ever present shadow, hulks over the cobbled road like a hungry animal, nearly blotting out the sun on the western face. Hunk swallows audibly and squares his shoulders, fingers sliding comfortingly into Lance’s own as the swell of people grows into a thick current. Keith leads as always, eyes on the prize, though he doesn’t drift too far away from them.

A plethora of newness washes over Lance and threatens to swallow him whole. There’s clothing and hairstyles he’s never seen, skin tones and curling accents he’d never heard; mussed from the river journey and clad in his apprentice tunic, Lance feels little more consequential than a newborn babe thrown out with the bathwater. How on earth are they going to find a way _out_ of the city if the way in already threatens to eat them alive?

Despite their fears, the first gate appears to serve as little more than an open filter. The massive flow of bodies is thinned out to two wagons wide — just big enough for the guards to scrape their eyes over every face. Humidity begins to collect in Lance’s palms and under his armpits as they walk up to the entryway. Hunk squeezes a little tighter; the poor guy looks ready to throw up again even though they’ve barely left the boat. Lance stares at the passing stones and licks his dry lips to keep himself from making a suspiciously awful grimace.

There’s a suffocating moment where they pass close, so close that Lance’s eyes drift over to the huge, hairy-knuckled toes of the guard at their right. He can smell the heavy sweat of the man, hear his grumbles as he looks directly over their heads at the mess of a produce wagon that strews goods over the thick ruts in the road, practically _taste_ the chew blackening his teeth.

Lance can’t help himself. He lets himself peek out the corner of his eye, barely grazing over the man’s figure with the impractical guilt of already being caught.

The guard’s eyes slide to his and lock on, boring into his skull. Lance sucks in the most painful breath — his hand twitches and involuntarily squeezes around Hunk’s tight enough to pinch the knuckle bones — and lets the flicker of a reflexive smile run across his mouth. The guard scowls, lips puckering out in a sneer.

And then he looks away, staring back out at the incoming flow, allowing them to pass inside.

Relief blooms in the gangly boy’s gut, surging out through his veins from his heart. The flush of excitement that comes after the fear is already flooding his system when they pass through to the other side of the wall, crashing directly into Keith’s backside. For once, though, Keith doesn’t seem to mind.

L’irea is a masterpiece of layers, far more than any elaborate cake or thickly-peeled fruit. From where they stand, the darkly colorful slums and outer bazaars of the city speckle the earth and blot out the ground, transitioning after a secondary border into a lighter, more uniform layer of even, blocky buildings and threading spiderweb avenues. Hidden behind its own thick wall, the citadel towers above the surrounding architecture in a monument of colossal size; even from where they stand Lance can see the impossibly lush greenery that coils up and out of the walls like a bubbling cauldron.

The entire city of L’irea is a _mountain._

“The last stop before the sea,” Keith murmurs. His eyes are nearly glazed over staring at the mass of life before them. “We’ve made it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a whole plan for Clyde and his boat o' snakes but cut it for the sake of time. Maybe someday I can write a short piece on it?  
> If you're disheartened by all the walking in this chapter, have hope! Now that the boys have finally gotten to L'irea I can bring in major Plot™ and Backstory™ (and some new characters ohoho). Stay tuned!
> 
> Feel free to ask any questions in the comments, or drop me a line on [tumblr](poetatertot.tumblr.com) if you'd like.


	3. Right of Rites

_"For the betterment of the state, the alignment of interests of our mother and her children, and the regulation of protective services, in the name of our guiding Saint Zarkon, the citadels hereby require all Hearers to register for instruction within the first moon of their manifestation.”_

_-Eparch Sendak, Year 1027 A.F._

++

  


The worst part of crowded spaces is the smell.

Lance thought he knew real odor. The livestock back in Al’Sae were always rolling in their crap, and sometimes it was just too hot _not_ to smell like sweat and dust. And then, of course, there’s the whole thing about traveling nonstop with no baths..

But _this._ This really takes the cake.

“I’m crying,” Hunk mutters. “Do you see these tears, Lance? They’re real.” He rubs one fist over his eyes, smearing tear tracks into his grit-coated skin. At this point they’ve all resigned themselves to becoming walking salt mines, what with how they’re always lightly dusted in debris. It would be enough to send Lance’s mama into a fit.

Dirt is nothing compared to the stink, though. There’s a pervasive layer of body odor over everything, hanging like a fog that they can taste if they breathe through their mouths. There are vendors cooking meat kebabs and other unidentifiable things, people washing things on the side of the roads, dogs casually shitting in alleyways. A door opens on Lance’s left and a woman stumbles out in an over-perfumed cloud of purple haze.

“I’m gonna die before we even have a meal,” he hisses, shuffling closer into Hunk’s side. Even Hunk is too warm and stinky. “This crowd is going to kill me.”

Keith is so close he doesn’t even have to turn to be heard. “Don’t be such a drama queen.”

“What, like you’re not dying too? Your clothes are practically painted on you. It’s disgusting.” Lance wrinkles his nose. “Don’t you know black is like, a super impractical color? Being mysterious just isn’t worth it.”  
  
Keith stoutly ignores him. “We’re making a right at the fork up here.” He immediately jerks right, narrowly missing a wagon full of packing soil to duck into a side street. They have no choice but to follow.

The buildings — shacks, really, with how decrepit they are — are so close that there’s only room for them to move single file. Somewhere to their right a couple sounds to be close to blows; their screams, combined with the noisy hum of the main road, drown out just about everything. Lance’s ears haven’t stopped ringing since they passed into the flow of traffic.

The bar sign is nothing more than wall graffiti; it’s so poorly painted it isn’t even legible, the only indication being a crude drawing of a pint and drumstick. Keith pauses to let a drunk man stumble out before walking inside. Lance trails his heels closely.

The ceiling, with chunks of sealant and plaster crumbled away, exposes the bar to fractured light. Smoke wafts on the air that tastes sour-sweet and prickles new tears in Lance’s eyes. As he watches, one gangly woman at the bar tips back the dregs of a glass bottle before smashing it into the bar. Glass bits off the bottom crack away, becoming lethal glitter to drag bare feet over.

“Keith, buddy.” Lance leans in close enough to brush his chin on Keith’s shoulder. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

“Looks about right,” Keith replies grimly. He sucks in a deep, steadying breath, nose wrinkling at the air’s flavor, and steps up to the bar.

The bartender doesn’t even flinch but stares down at Keith from a bulbous, crooked nose. “What do you want?” His teeth are an uncomfortable shade of mossy green.

Keith stands squarely, chin lifted to stare the man in the eye. “We’re looking for a place to stay a few nights. Heard you might know a place.”

The bartender’s nose wrinkles. “I don’t do charity. Who told you, the street rats? They’re full o’ shit if they think I’m gonna take more of their friends on.”  
  
“We aren’t friends,” Keith says. “Just passing through. We need a spot to sleep until we get on a boat.”

The bartender stops wiping the counter long enough to fix each of them with a beady stare. His eyes scrape over their sunburned skin and dirty hair, the leftover salt streaks at their temples. He spends an uncomfortably long time glaring at the insignias stitched into Lance and Hunk’s tunics, chewing on the inside of his cheek all the while. Finally he throws down his handrag.

“You boys know how to clean?”

Growing up, Lance never spent too much time around drunks; drinking was an expensive past time in Al’Sae, a luxury you donned if you had extra hands to do the day’s work. The citadel never allowed any alcohol past its limits either. As such, the first few hours at the bar are something of a unique experience. He shuffles about the edge of the room with a broom in hand, eyeballing the floor for any glint of broken glass or obscene filth (“somebody’s always trackin’ in dog shit,” the bartender said grimly). With his eyes to the floor he can pretend he isn’t listening to every passing conversation.

The majority of talk is low and slurred, the mumbles of men already on their way to an afternoon nap, but one voice carries above the rest. Lance pretends to see a nasty bug underneath a nearby table and shuffles up to a cluster of smokers.

“It’s that damn Order,” one man with an eyepatch snarls. He bangs his fist on the table hard enough to jump liquid from every glass. Spittle flies when he speaks. “I can’t go anywhere without those dreamers hounding my ass. If I saw one of theirs walkin’ about I woulda already told ‘em by now!”

“There probably isn’t any left,” says a skinny guy on his left. “They’ve made short work of any stragglers.”

Lance slows his sweeping. _Stragglers?_ He peeks up at the ring of men through his eyelashes.

“That’s what I told ‘em! There ain’t a body left in this godforsaken city that hasn’t been enlisted. At this point they might as well start takin’ people at random.” Eyepatch man scowls, wiping at the corner of his mouth. “Fucking dreamers and their stupid Orders. Leave the rest of us be, would ya?” His single eye snaps over to where Lance is huddled and bulges out of his head. “What are _you_ lookin’ at?”

Lance squeaks and snaps to attention, nearly dropping the broom. “Nothing!”  
  
“Bull, I saw you lookin’.” Eyepatch man’s scowl deepens as he leans towards Lance. His stool threatens to wobble out from underneath him. “What, you never seen a man with one eye before?”

“Uh, no actually. But it’s cool,” Lance adds hurriedly, noticing how the man’s face turns an unpleasant shade of mauve. “I actually had a question. About the uh, dreamers.”

Skinny man on the left takes a swig from his glass. “What do you wanna know kid?”

Lance’s eyes flicker from the table to the bar. The bartender appears to be in the middle of an argument with one customer, gesticulating wildly with his cleaning rag.

The boy slides up close to the table and plops himself down in the last open seat, leaning the broom against the edge. He leans in to the others, eyebrows raised conspiratorially.

“So what’s this about an Order?”

++

“Wait.” Hunk drops the washrag into the sink. “Isn’t something like that illegal?”

“That’s what I asked!” Lance leans against the counter and stares at his reflection in his cup. “They didn’t have a problem with it. Said that it was an easy way to get cash — or at least it was, before every single Hearer between here and the ocean became registered. Now there isn’t anybody left.” He and Hunk exchange a look. _Except us, that is._

“Makes sense to me,” Keith mutters darkly. He’s been hovering in the corner for nearly ten minutes, arms crossed while he chews on his rationed meal. “What’s a little money to the citadels as long as they get what they want?”

“I just don’t get it.” Hunk resumes washing, scraping away old residue. “Why pressure them all into registering? It’s an honor and everything to work for the citadel but..” He looks up from the sink. “Shouldn’t it be a personal choice?”

“There’s no such thing as choice under the citadel.” Keith scowls, shoving away his plate to stand. “They have motives to keep the Hearers behind their walls and I’m going to find out what they are.”

“That’s great and all, but what about us right now?” Lance shakes his head. “If the citadel’s got everybody under wraps, how are we supposed to get any dreams in? I don’t know if you looked around but there aren’t exactly any gardens anywhere — and _don’t_ ,” he snaps, seeing Keith start to retort, “say that we can just sleep on the ground. I am not sleeping in dog shit.” He rubs his arms, hating how his limbs are beginning to prickle and ache. It’s already been over a week since his last proper meditation; a few days more and he’ll be too tired to stand, much less walk anywhere. He casts a glance at the others, recognizing the flushed skin and unnaturally dark circles that come with deprivation. “You can act all tough but I know you feel it too. We can’t go much longer like this.”

“We could try to leave town for the day,” Hunk suggests.

“What, and waste time we need to figure out a way out of here? I’ll pass.” Keith stacks his plate on top of the pile by the sink.

“How are we doing that anyway?” Hunk takes the dish obediently and starts in on scrubbing. “Moving down the river is one thing, but we’re trying to cross an _ocean._ Don’t you need a special invitation for something like that? How much will that even cost?” He groans. “Oh god. If we get on an even bigger snake boat I think I’ll just swim to the north instead.”

“Relax, Hunk. I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

“That’s what you said _last_ time, and look where we ended up!”

“Hold it,” the bartender says, sliding back into the room. The three can’t help but jump guiltily; they had completely forgotten he was around. _What if he overheard us talking about the citadel?_ Lance swallows hard and straightens on his stool.

The bartender plants his hands on his hips. “What’s this about a boat? You tryin’ to cross the strait?”

“Yeah.” Keith lifts his chin, already sizing up the other man. “Happen to know anything?”

“Not really — but I do know somebody who does.” The older man bares his mossy teeth in a smirk. “Want to see ‘em?”

++

Somehow, when Lance was thinking of _con artist skilled in lengthy forged documents on the black market,_ the first person in mind wasn’t a kid. Call him crazy.

The bar swells into full swing at about noon the next day — worringly early, if it weren’t for the fact that drinking is apparently like getting lunch in L’irea — and with the ruckus comes the youngest patron Lance has seen in his hours of employment. Mousy-haired and bespectacled, the kid barely comes up to Lance’s shoulder; they slither in behind two burly dock workers and take up shop at a small corner table, propping a book against an empty tumbler. Nobody even bats an eyelash.

“Hey baby bird. Flown too far from the nest?” He can’t help but blurt. The kid’s bony underneath their too-large clothes as if they donned somebody else’s wardrobe. It’s cute in a childish sort of way— .

Until they look up and squint at Lance from over their book, nose wrinkling as if he’s dropped a steaming crap right on the floor. “Fuck off.”

“Yeesh, alright. Sorry.” He nudges their stool with his broom. “Aren’t you too young to be in a bar like this, though?”

“You don’t get paid to ask questions,” they snipe, not even bothering to look up again.

“I actually don’t get paid at all, but that’s beside the point.” He leans in, propping up one arm on the table and waggling his eyebrows. “Is it true you can write up some passes? _Boat_ passes? To cross the ocean?”

“I guarantee you won’t be able to afford my price,” they drone. The kid licks one thumb and changes the page. “Costs a lot to get all the materials, you know. Try somewhere else.”

“Oh come on,” Lance wheedles. “There’s gotta be something you want. What is it? I’ve got a cool knot trick I can teach you. My pal — the big guy at the sink, see him? — can also make a mean casserole. Would that be enough?”

Their eyes snap up and flicker to where Hunk is singing and washing cups, and they chew on their bottom lip with a faraway look. “What kind of casserole?”

“Beef and veggie.”  
  
“Veggies? Gross. No thanks.” They eye him up and down as if Lance is some sort of ugly, annoying stray. “What would _you_ want to do with a boat pass anyway? Heading to Al’tea in hopes of hitting it big?”

“Nope!” Lance runs one hand through his hair and grins. “We’re actually headed to the mountains. With _real snow._ Pretty cool, I know.” He notices how their eyes narrow, fingers whitening as they clench around their book. Their lips flatten into a thin line. “What?”

“The mountains,” they echo, mouth working around the words. They adjust their glasses and look over him again, eyes flickering over to where Keith is aggressively handling dishware and slapping down drinks at tables. Lance can practically see the gears in their brain turning. “Interesting.” And then, before he has a chance to regret telling them anything about their destination, the kid snaps their book shut and lays it on the table. They flash him a toothy grin. “Okay. Alright. How about I cut you a deal?”

“Like what?” Lance asks suspiciously. He’s always one to cut off costs, but if this kid asks for something like his organs he’s gonna have to make a hard pass. Keith would be pissed. And then offer his own organs as boatfare, probably.

“Nothing too difficult.” They pick at a wearing corner of the book cover. “Just. take me with you.”

“I— what?” He blinks at them incredulously. “Isn’t that dangerous for somebody like you?”

“No more than it is for you, I bet.” They lean back and prop their legs up on the table, side-eyeing him. “Come on. I’ll provide the papers, you just have to promise to let me come along — the ships don’t allow underage passengers without company.” They grimace. “I don’t even take up that much space or eat a lot. You’ll do it right?”

Lance runs his tongue over teeth, contemplating. The kid feels more desperate than what they’re letting on, but aren’t they all? He stands straight. “Alright, fine. But if Hunk gives you food you gotta eat it, okay? Don’t hurt his feelings like that.”

“Fine.” They lean in to shake Lance’s hand but pause, frowning. “Except peas. I won’t eat peas.”

++

They’re able to strain out another two days, biding time while the kid — who aptly enough goes by Pigeon, or Pidge, as Lance has grown to calling them — gathers all the documents from god-knows-where. The bar tables are hard to sleep on, but Lance finds that bunching his pack as a pillow kinda helps; he’s able to drift away after staring at the sky through the ceiling cracks. The bar is full from opening to close, never leaving the trio time to bemoan their aching muscles or rapidly deteriorating conditions.

It’s early morning of the third day that Hunk finally snaps. He finishes the last dish with pitiful finesse and slumps to the floor, one hand pressed to his temple. The sponge smacks to the ground, splattering water everywhere.

“Hunk!” Lance moves as fast as his trembling legs will take him. He sinks to his knees — falls, really, with how weak his muscles are — and rolls the big guy over, brushing a hand over his forehead. His pupils have dilated and there’s sweat all over Hunk’s face, beading at his hairline and upper lip. He’s barely breathing. “No. _No_.”

“It’s the fever,” Keith says, swooping into a crouch at Hunk’s other side. His hands are swift and nimble, smoothing the hair out of Hunk’s eyes, running over the veins on the insides of his arms, pressing over where his heart beats weakly under layers of skin and muscle. His lips press into a firm line. “We need to get him out of here, immediately.”

“But where can we go?” Lance hisses. His eyes flicker to the other room where the bartender has holed up for the night with a bottle of whiskey. “The city is full of snitches, and we don’t have the time or strength to carry him out of here.” He sucks in slow, shaking breaths, feeling his own heart rate start to climb. He can’t afford to break down now after everything they’ve done.

“Out back,” Keith decides. “Where the outhouse is. Nobody will watch us there.”

The alleyway is never completely quiet — part of L’irea’s charm, one might say — but luck is on their side. They manage to support Hunk’s weight between themselves, dragging him out the back door without anyone seeing. Keith fumbles with the latch on the latrine, hands slipping as they tremble violently, before he busts open the door with an impressive snapkick. They tumble inside and sink to the floor, immediately sliding Hunk between their bent knees.

“Help me roll him over,” Keith demands, voice dropped to a whisper. They fumble with Hunk’s body, nudging him into lying on his stomach with his hands pressed firmly into the earth. One cheek rests against the ground — _real, rich earth_ , Lance realizes, though the air is choked with the stench of piss. Lance presses himself tightly to the latrine’s wall to give Hunk room.

“Mother, guide us,” Lance breathes, fingernails biting into palms. The air coats his tongue like a foul syrup but he chokes through it to deliver the ritual words. “Let us Hear your voice.”

Hunk’s whole frame immediately seizes up, spine bowing painfully as fingers curl unconsciously into the dirt, nails filling with soil and grit to the point of pain. Lance can’t see his expression but the noises are enough; his low, choked groans fill the air as the earth’s energy pours into him like blood from an open artery, spurting and filling the nooks and crannies of his soul in molten essence. _The earth’s reward to him for Hearing its message,_ a voice chimes in Lance’s memories.

 _But is it really a reward if we grow to need it to live?_ Lance swallows around the bitterness on his tongue. Those were the types of questions the citadel never loved to answer — the ones about the aftermath, the toll of being gifted by the earth. They all sought the euphoria of Hearing; how could they not, when the citadels told such stories of regale and wonder? To be in touch with the earth was a dream in of itself.

 _All dreams must come to an end_ , the priestess used to tell them after meditation. It was cruel, really, how right she actually was. There was the magic of connection and the unimaginable high of the earth’s words, but nobody ever spoke about the thirst afterward. The _need_ , burning limbs and poisoning the brain, twisting the body until it depends on the mother like a suckling infant.

Lance can only sit, numb, listening as the power works its way through Hunk’s veins. Whatever he’s dreaming about must be a real treat; his awful noises soothe quickly as the power floods, steadying into slow, even breathing. The earth is warm around his extended fingers and as Lance waits for the event to end he feels the tiniest tickling brushes of life bursting from the soil. Life where there could never naturally be.

For how long they sit in the dark, Lance will never know. His legs burn and then go completely numb; he gives up on straining his eyes in the dark and simply closes them, listening to the others’ soft breaths. Time passes in strange waves.

Hunk finally comes to in a burst of shaking limbs and deep breaths, crumpling in on himself. He lays there for a long moment, fingers twitching in the new grass, gasping laughter too loud in their hot, crowded space. One hand brushes Lance’s calf and stays there.

“Lions,” he finally manages to croak after a minute or two. “Lance. I saw _lions._ ” He shudders and a chuckle escapes, rattling his whole frame. “There was a big one and she was so beautiful. A big, beautiful yellow lion.”  
  
“That’s great Hunk,” Lance says, smoothing back Hunk’s hair from his forehead. He has no idea what a lion is. “I’m sure you’ll know what it means soon.”

++

Pidge doesn’t miss a beat when they come in the next day, big book tucked under one arm as usual. They prop up their scrawny legs at a corner table — _their_ table, Lance suspects, with how all the other patrons leave it open in their absence — and peer at the trio over the top of it.

“You guys look refreshed.” Their eyes trail over straightened shoulders and bright eyes. “Good night’s sleep?”

“Something like that,” Lance replies.

The night’s dreams feel far away, as if they belong to someone else entirely and Lance is just looking in at a distance. He can remember threads of sensation — icy chills over bones, the blue-white glimmer of a feline eye — but nothing clings when he wakes aside from the chemical rush. He’s alive again, for better or for worse.

The bartender wastes no time. He rallies them all up, lining them up at the bar while mixing drinks.

“Good thing you’ve got high spirits,” he grumbles, shaking a tin canister. “I’m sendin’ you out on an errand today.”  
“What, all of us?” Keith casts a sideways glance at Hunk, who’s already proved his worth five times over in washing and cooking. “Are you sure that’s.. economic?”

“You’re gonna need all the help you can get. This isn’t a regular market run.” The man pours sludge mix into a highball and slides it to a customer. “I’m running low on my stock of waterstone fruit and need you boys to go dig some up. Grows out in the empty riverbeds past L’irea, you know; if I left it to one of ya the job would never get done.”

“None of us are from here,” Lance points out. “Wouldn’t it be better to ask somebody else?”

“What, you think I got errand boys out the ass?” He scoffs. “Don’t be dumb, boy. Just take your bookworm friend with you — I know they know where some fruits are. Always lugging around that plant book of theirs.” His eyes flicker over their heads. “I see you trying to leave, pidgeon. C’mere and lend them a hand.”

Pidge shuffles forward with a sour look. “You owe me,” they grumble, jabbing a sandal into Lance’s ankle.

“Yeah, yeah.” He pats the top of their head. “Put it on my tab.”

++

Late afternoon throws long shadows from clifftops and mesas. They follow the line of shade as it snakes away from L’irea’s outer wall, running uphill from the sea into the even sandscape. Even though the air is dry enough to scale tender skin, Lance savors the open, crisp quality; inside the city everything feels heavy and humid, weighed down by the heat of thousands of bodies. Here, at least, he can stretch his limbs.

And stretch they do. While the trek isn’t quite uphill, the empty riverbeds are full of stone and thin, pebbly sand that makes walking a slow business. Lance finds it easier to watch his own feet rather than the trail ahead — the bed stones are various in color and shape, a bed of dusty oddities he can overturn with little kicks and slips. There’s one rock, blood-red and angular to the point of cutting his thumb, that he can’t help but pocket for later.

Pidge moves quick for their tiny legs, picking their way carefully right behind Keith. They trail hands over the layers of dirt and spout facts like one of Lance’s encyclopedias, giving strange names to the stones Hunk and Lance pluck out of the sand. The heat rolls off their skin like oil on water.

“What does a waterstone fruit look like anyway?” Hunk wipes sweat from his forehead, grimacing at the coating that comes away on his hand. “Is it obvious to pick out?”

“Not exactly,” Pidge replies. “It kinda looks like a tiny, fat cactus sticking out of the ground. But the spines are super thick and hard to cut off — keeps predators away that way. You have to dig the stem out from underneath to pick them.” They cup their fingers into a bowl, wiggling pinkies. “That’s where it’s sweetest! And the whole thing is full of water, too. Sweet to drink.”

Hunk and Lance share a look. “You sure know a lot about cacti.”

“Of course I do.” Pidge grins broadly, adjusting their glasses. “It’s my specialty.”

“I wasn’t aware little kids could _have_ specialties. Aren’t you, like, ten?”

“You want to look for this plant by yourself?”

“Alright, alright.” Hunk throws his hands up in surrender. He still looks curious though, lips parted in thought. “But really. Where do you get all your books from? Isn’t paper expensive here too?”

Pidge’s fingers curl into their tunic hem, tugging the fabric down tighter. “They were gifts.”

Their chatter dwindles to silence; they follow the weaving riverbeds with no more music than the rhythm of their breaths, the shuffle of their sandals echoing off the shelves and cliffs. The sun begins to descend without any fruition to their journey — Lance can feel the temperature drop at the nape of his neck, along his spine where sweat is beginning to cool. An hour more and it’ll be sunset. They’ll have to return empty-handed.

“We can’t just show up with _nothing_ ,” Keith huffs, brushing that damned mullet out of his eyes. Lance’s fingers itch with the urge to just, cut it or something, anything to get that boy from flipping his hair like he’s got a nervous tic. “We aren’t getting paid to just fuck around.”  
  
“Um, Keith?” Hunk wrings his hands. “I don’t know if you forgot, but we aren’t getting paid at all.”  
  
“Yes well that’s besides the point—”  
  
“Okay then, all-knowing leader.” Lance sticks out his chin and plants his hands on his hips. “What do _you_ suggest we do? Walk around all night? Become _dog food_ _?_ I don’t know about you but I have a special date with a table and I refuse to miss it because I’m out here eating dust!”

“What, you think I like this any more than you?” The dark-haired boy scowls, fists curling. “This isn’t exactly my idea of a good time either. That’s why we have to just search as fast as we can—”

“ _Just search_ , he says, as if that isn’t what we’ve been doing for hours—”

Pushing Keith’s buttons verbally is one thing; Lance really can’t help how easy it is for him to just open his mouth and _do_ it, easy as breathing. He’s not going to deny the thrill that flutters in his gut to see Keith flare up, eyes finally tearing away from whatever he’s so focused on to train on Lance, to pay full attention to him for once. He shouldn’t care, really. _But._

Pushing Keith physically is another thing entirely.

Fingers slide up and press onto chests seemingly on their own, pressure turning to grips as they struggle for dominance. There are better things to fight about but all Lance can feel is the heat underneath fabric and the echoes of that drug — a mother’s brush — jittering in his veins. Keith’s lip curls as their ankles tangle, leaning too far one way regardless of how Hunk swings forward, raising his voice over theirs in a too-little-too-late effort to quell whatever rises. Lance feels suspended in a single moment, trapped in the boy’s too-tight grip on his tunic, before they tumble backwards into the riverbed.

The effect is immediate. Keith snarls, practically foaming at the mouth as he tosses Lance aside; he writhes like a hooked fish, eyes glaring venomously at something they can’t see. And then he opens his mouth and _screams._

“It’s the waterstone fruit!” Pidge shrieks. Hunk claps a hand over his mouth. Lance tears his gaze away from those huge, violet eyes and looks down at Keith’s legs, swallowing around sudden bile. Thick spines, big as some of the thick needles his mama sews hide with, are protruding from Keith’s calves. Trickles of blood are already beginning to stream, dribbling through dust and leg hair to drip onto the sandy ground, and _oh no that can’t be right—_

“Lance,” Keith chokes out, forcing his gaze back up. “Help me up.”  
  
Lance swallows down the cluster of thoughts crowding his tongue and nods, extending shaking hands to grip around Keith’s own tightly. His palms are slick with sweat and burn Lance’s skin, nails biting into the backs of his hands as he wrenches Keith into standing. Spittle flies from the long-haired boy’s mouth as he grits down in an attempt to stay his groans. It barely works.

Already the earth is beginning to betray her son; Lance sees where the sand darkens under fresh blood, absorbing unnaturally. The waterstone fruit bears only a few droplets of Keith’s blood, but sparse drops are enough to instigate change. New, miniature growths are beginning to form.

“Get onto your back,” Pidge demands. They ignore the rapidly budding blooms of the cacti. “Quickly. The spines secrete an irritant; if we don’t remove them soon, your legs will puff up like balloons. It’ll be really gross.” The kid cringes at the damage but never looks away, eyes flickering up to meet Keith’s, and nods sharply. “You gonna remove it yourself?”

“Yeah,” he huffs, a sheen of sweat reforming over his temples. “I’ll do it.”

Hands trail down thighs, hovering just over where the first of several thick spines protrude. Keith swallows, adam’s apple bobbing visibly. The skin around his eyes tighten in preparation.

Lance looks away at the last second but the effect is all the same. The low snarl, air hissing out through clenched teeth, the hapless twitch of legs in the dust, the soft count maintained by Pidge, all tell the same story. Hunk leans heavily on his best friend, palms pressed tightly over lips.

It takes several counts back from five for him to finish. Keith plucks the last piece from his skin with a huff and throws it somewhere they can’t see, growling swears under his breath that would boil Lance’s mama’s blood. His legs are slick with both sweat and thin, scarlet trails that mix towards his ankles. He glares up at Lance.

“Happy now? We found your fucking fruit.”  
  
“ _My_ fruit? I’m the one who wanted to go home!”

“None of that,” Pidge scolds, shoving Lance aside. They kneel beside Keith and rip off part of their tunic hem. “Pass me your water, would you?”

Lance shuffles close and helps Pidge soak the new rags before dabbing at Keith’s legs. One would think that removing the spines would be worse — his legs ooze as if diseased — but Keith has let himself lay flat on his back, staring up at the purpling sky. He sighs, long and slow, as they wrap up his calves.

“You’re lucky you just tripped over the thing. Can you imagine _sitting_ on it? Hunk would have to carry you back to L’irea.” Pidge sits back and adjusts their glasses, looking over quick handiwork, before casting a backwards glance at the waterfruit. Tiny buds are starting to protrude from the dust.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Lance says. His heart flutters dangerously but there’s nothing to be done about it; if Pidge is going to turn them in, they would have already, right? For other illegal shit? He bites his lip.

“No. Why would I be?” They sigh, tucking hair behind one ear. One eyebrow lifts at Lance’s nervous shuffling. “Your trip,” they say slowly. “You told me you were going to the snowy mountains in the north.”

“So?” Lance retorts, ignoring the way Keith’s head whips up. He’ll deal with that bomb later.

“So. There isn’t anything up in that area except _enclaves.”_ They glance meaningfully at Keith’s starfish form and Hunk, who seems bent on avoiding looking at Keith’s legs still. “What else was I supposed to think?”  
  
“We could just be going to play in the snow,” Lance says, shoulders hunching under Keith’s gaze. “You don’t know.” Pidge raises their other eyebrow. “Really!”

“Well the game is up either way, and I still stand by my offer. I was serious about coming with you guys.” They scowl, fingers trailing over the earth. “I have reasons to visit the enclaves, too.”

“Reasons,” Hunk echoes. “Like.. Escape-the-citadels reasons? Or is there something else?”

“I don’t know about escaping,” Pidge’s lips twist sourly, “but it definitely has to do with the citadels. They’ve got my brother, actually. And hundreds of other victims. I need to figure out how to get them out.”

A moment of silence stretches into two, then three. Keith’s eyes are alight as he works over this juicy information, already disregarding his bandaged calves in favor of something Lance can’t see. Hunk sucks in a long breath and lets it out. The sun continues to dip.

“Victims,” Lance finally says, mouth working around the word. “What do you mean, _victims_ ?” He thinks back to the locked and sealed room with the pre-Fall merchandise, to the bald man with the gun, ready to kill three people for the sake of a little quiet. _Those kind of victims?_

“Captives,” Pidge amends. “You’re also running for the enclaves — you know about all the missing people, right? The ones the citadel assigns to different locations?”

“Yes,” Keith replies.

“Uh, no.” Lance’s eyes flicker between the two seated. “Do they even count as missing? The citadel moves apprentices to max out their education. People get letters back and visits all the time.” He can remember several passing apprentices, stopping for the night in Al’Sae on their way to the bigger cities. Their faces shone bright with the promise of bigger, better things. “I can think of a few.”

“That’s because they have to let some go. Think about it. People would get suspicious if _everybody_ went missing — which is why they let some do the whole pilgrimage or whatever, while the rest are taken away.” They lean in, pressing palms to crossed legs. “To where, I still don’t know, but I think it’s for re-education.”

“Cult mechanics,” Keith breathes, triumphant. Hunk casts a fleeting glare.

“How do you know for sure? Do you have proof?”

Pidge’s lips twist in a wry smile. “You don’t get it. I _am_ the proof.”

Keith gets to sit out on the digging process, leaning back on his hands while he peppers Pidge with questions. Hunk is the first to have a go at digging out the cacti’s roots; he picks out a promising looking rock from the riverbed and hacks away at the dirt, creating a shallow pit just far away enough to avoid stabbing himself on spines. Lance is left to wait on stand-by, absorbing Pidge and Keith’s serious, fervent energy.

“My brother used to study here in L’irea. I was too young to go with him, but he always sent letters with details on what they were learning so I could try too. I was going to join him as soon as I was old enough.” Pidge pauses, scuffing their sandal on a pebble. “He left before I could travel to see him.”

“Re-assignment?” Lance crosses his arms, eyeballing Hunk’s handiwork. The sky is rapidly purpling but there’s still enough light to gauge a foot-deep hole. He might not even need a turn digging. “Where’d he go?”

“Al’tea. Said it was one of the greatest things he’s ever done.” Pidge’s nose scrunches up, lip curling as they glare out over the sandscape. “Or at least it was at first. Things went downhill pretty quickly once he got settled.”

“So then,” Keith tilts his head, lips pursed, “you’re planning to find the enclaves. To do what, exactly?”

Pidge stares at the black-haired boy for a long moment — stares _through_ him. Their palms slide up the sides of their too-large tunic, fingers brushing absentmindedly at a cord peeking out of the collar. In their toes turned inward, mouth pinched tight, eyes creasing at the corners into familiar dips and lines, Lance sees the shadows of old memories come back to haunt. _And they’re only a child._

“The same as you,” they finally whisper. “I just want to have answers.”

 

++

 

_Dear Katie,_

 

_Al’tea is absolutely massive! The architecture here is exactly what dad dreams about — all tall spires and bridges, with points that look like they touch the clouds. I’ve been giving myself neck cramps trying to look at it all. The citadel is beautiful too; they have a special garden just for the desert plants that grow back at home! You would love it here._

_My first week of lessons has been all about history and the earth’s connection. You wouldn’t believe that…_

 

++

_Dear Katie,_

 

_Sorry I haven’t had time to write lately, I don’t mean to worry you. They’ve been working us extra hard for a special occasion: the saint himself is coming to observe us! Since my dreams have been promising, I might even have a chance to speak with the high advisors myself. I’ll tell you how it goes, promise._

_In preparation for the saint, we’ve been learning extra rites that tie directly to the saint and his council. We have to practice a lot to get it right — sometimes we work into dinner hour, or come back to finish afterwards. I’m a bit tired but I have to do my best. The saint would expect nothing less than perfection, the priests say. I’ll do what I can to make you all proud.._

 

++

_Katie,_

 

_I don’t have much time to write tonight, but that’s okay. It shouldn’t be much longer._

_Today did_ not _go as planned. We didn’t get to see the saint, but other men came to watch us meditate. It felt more like a weird performance.. Even without the saint there, the priests made us follow the rites in the saint’s name. They kept asking strange questions too — about allegiance, and where loyalties lie concerning faith. The more I think about it, the more wrong it feels.._

_We haven’t spent much time calling to the mother lately. Sometimes I wonder if the people here have forgotten. Everyone is so caught up in Saint Zarkon and his eparchs, it’s as if they pray to another mother entirely.._

_Stay in L’irea and don’t come to visit, okay? I’m planning on asking to come home soon. If all goes well, you should see me within a moon. Keep an eye out!_

 

_Love,_

_Matt_  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are few times in my life where I've been too sick to write and last week would have to be one of them. This chapter is only a day or two behind so I can forgive it.. but don't get me wrong, I was panicking the whole time. Also, happy belated Lance day guys!  
> For the sake of staying congruent with my own headcanons, Pidge's pronouns will stay they/them. Also, next chapter we'll finally be able to complete the dream squad! Hope everyone is as excited as I am :-)
> 
> Feel free to ask any questions in the comments, or drop me a line on [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/) if you'd like.


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